


My Heart Will Go On

by Kellyscams



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canonical Character Death, Death, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Physical Abuse, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, RMS Titanic, Romance, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Top Steve Rogers, Tragedy, True Love, if i can think of any, it's a titanic au, social classes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 118,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21934336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kellyscams/pseuds/Kellyscams
Summary: Seventeen-year-old James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, born to wealth and privilege, is returning home to America aboard the RMS-Titanic -- the Ship of Dreams -- with his mother, Winifred, and fiancé, Alexander Pierce. Wanting nothing to do with the upcoming wedding that's been forced upon him, Bucky feels lost and helpless, desperate to get away from a life he dreads. All he longs for is freedom, and he might very well be desperate enough to escape by any means necessary.For twenty-year-old Steve Rogers, a kind but poor artist, life is full of endless possibilities and limitless adventures. When Steve wins a pair of Third Class Tickets for Titanic at a lucky hand of poker, he just knows with all his heart that his destiny waits for him on that ship. With the fresh air in his lungs, a few blank pages, and his best friend, Sam, at his side, Steve is sure this is going to be his biggest adventure yet.While aboard the ship, a chance encounter brings Bucky, the spoiled aristocrat, and Steve, the starving artist, face-to-face, and one moment just might change both their lives forever as they sail across the Atlantic on the ill-fated Ship of Dreams.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Alexander Pierce, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Scott Lang/Hope Van Dyne
Comments: 303
Kudos: 398





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I've chosen _not_ to use any warnings since quite a number of people have asked that I keep the ending a secret. I know that plenty of _other_ people won't want to read _without_ knowing the ending so for anyone who feels the need to know, simply [click here for a list of survivors](https://kellyscams.dreamwidth.org/). If, for some reason, that link doesn't work for you, feel free to message me on tumblr at [thebestpersonherelovesbucky](https://thebestpersonherelovesbucky.tumblr.com/). I'll be happy to answer anything regarding the end of the fic so long as it's not anon. 
> 
> If neither of these options works for you, please just leave a comment and we'll discuss a different way.
> 
> In any case, thank you to everyone who's messaged me with encouragement, support, and expressed their excitement for this fic! I hope you enjoy!

**1997**

**The North Atlantic**

At the bottom of the sea, the pale, dead-flat lunar landscape becomes brighter, lit from above by the submersible, Wasp One, as it drops to the seafloor in a down blast from its thrusters. It hits the bottom after its two-hour freefall with a loud crash. The mini-sub skims over the ocean’s ground to the sound of the side-scanning sonar and the thrum of its engines. 

Out of the darkness, like a ghostly apparition, the bow of a ship appears. The Wasp One heads straight for it, its knife-edge prow seeming to plow the bottom sediment like ocean waves. It towers above the seafloor, standing just as it landed eighty-four years ago. 

The Titanic. 

Or what’s left of her. 

The Wasp One floats up and over the bow railing, still intact except for the overgrowth of rust draping across it like thick, dirty icicles. 

“That gets me every time,” says Scott Lang, full-time treasure hunter and salvager. This job is the biggest one he’s ever taken.

“Maybe it’s your guilty conscience,” replies his partner and girlfriend, Hope van Dyne. “Stealing from the dead and all.” 

Scott rolls his eyes. “C’mon, we’re not keeping it for ourselves. It’s for history. Preservation.”

“Right. And it has nothing to do with the payoff.”

“Perks.” Scott smirks. “Besides, Stark is invested in this as much as we are.”

Tony Stark had been the one to approach them about this mission. He’s financed the ship, Iron Man, waiting for them above the surface. As the grandson of Howard Stark Sr. – the man behind Titanic’s design – Tony had a personal investment in this. 

Down the starboard side, past the huge anchor, Wasp One passes over the seemingly endless forecastle deck. It’s massive anchor chains still laid out in two neat rows, their bronze windlass caps gleaming. The tiny sub that floats past it might as well be a bug next to the enormous wreck. They set down on the boat deck, next to the ruins of the Officer’s Quarters. 

“Right,” Scott says. “Let’s get to work.” 

Hope turns to the man sitting at the sonar monitors. His slipping on a pair of electronic goggles over his head and reaching for the joystick next to him.

“Ready, Luis?”

“Always, Hope,” Luis replies. “Let’s roll.”

The joystick he uses controls the ROV, a small robotic machine with clamps that can be used to steer through tighter spaces of the wreckage and turn things over and around and out of their way. It’s Scott and Hope’s design. A stellar piece of equipment they’ve named The Ant-Man. 

Under Luis’s control, The Ant-Man drives away from the sub, its twin stereo-video cameras swiveling like insect eyes and capturing the images it sees on the monitors inside the sub. It descends through an open shaft that once was the beautiful First Class Grand Staircase, going down several decks, then moving into the First Class Reception Room and continuing through the cavernous interior.

Scott had been on many different assignments during his career, but there’s something unnerving about this one. How the wreck is so well-preserved. As though it simply moved from one spot to another on its own. The remains of the ornate hand-carved woodwork which gave the ship its elegance move through the floodlights, the lines blurred by slow dissolution and descending rusticle formations. Stalactites of rust hang down so that at times it truly looks like a natural grotto. Something that formed naturally over the passing of time. 

Then again, as the Ant-Man passes by the lines of this undersea mansion, the ghostly images of Titanic's opulence serve as a reminder of what was and will never be again.

A grand piano in amazingly good shape crashed on its side against a wall, the keys gleaming black and white in the lights of the Ant-Man. A chandelier, still hanging from the ceiling by its wire, glinting as Ant-Man moves around it. Its lights play across the floor, revealing a champagne bottle, then some White Star Line china. A woman's hightop "granny shoe". Then something that makes Scott hold his breath and touch the “World’s Greatest Grandpa” charm around his neck.

Though he knows it can’t be what looks like since all the human remains are long gone, the porcelain head of a doll, for just a moment, appears to be a child's skull. Everyone stops for a moment. Sometimes, in an attempt to get the job done, they need to push the personal part of this out and focus on everything else. But then where are times like this, when it’s just unavoidable. When they’re reminded just how much was lost here.

Scott breathes out again when Hope places a soft hand on his shoulder. He nods and sniffs. His daughter Cassie is at home with her mother and step-father. Safe. 

“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Keep going.”

Luis starts up again and guides The Ant-Man to a corridor which is even more preserved. Here and there a door still hangs on its rusted hinges. An ornate piece of molding, a wall sconce. All hints at the grandeur of the past. The Ant-Man turns and goes through a black doorway, entering room B-52, the sitting room of a promenade suite, one of the most luxurious staterooms on the Titanic.

“Aight, I’m in the sittin’ room,” Luis says. “Headed for B fity-four.”

“Careful of the floor,” Hope tells him. “Try not to stir up the dirt like yesterday.”

“I’m tryin’, Boss Lady.” 

Glinting in the lights now are the brass fixtures of the near-perfectly preserved fireplace. An albino crab crawls over it. Nearby are the remains of a divan and a writing desk. The Ant-Man crosses the ruins of the once elegant room toward another door where it squeezes through the doorframe, scraping rust and wood chunks loose on both sides. It moves out of a cloud of rust and dust and keeps going.

Luis pushes the robot across the bedroom where they see the remains of a pillared canopy bed. Broken chairs. A dresser. Through the collapsed wall of the bathroom, the porcelain commode and bathtub took almost new, gleaming in the dark.

“Wait, wait,” Hope says. “Go back, did you see that?”

“The wardrobe door, yeah,” Scott agrees. “Flip that bad boy over, we need to see what’s under it.”

“Uh oh.” Luis chuckles as he moves the joystick and brings the Ant-Man back around. “I know those voices.” 

Luis grips a wardrobe door, lying at an angle in a corner, and pulls it with Ant-Man’s gripper. It moves reluctantly in a cloud of silt to reveal that under it is a dark object. The silt clears and the cameras show them what was under the door.

“ _Oh_ , shit, Scottie!” Luis exclaims. “You see that?”

A huge grin pulls up on Scott’s mouth. A grin he shares with Hope. Right there, in the glare of the lights, is the object of their quest. A small, steel combination safe.

The cheering around Scott makes him smile even harder than he’d been since the sub resurfaced. The safe, dripping wet in the afternoon sun, is lowered onto the deck of The Iron Man by a winch cable. It’s lowered to the deck and then sits, waiting to be opened. Music to Scott’s ears. A crowd forms around it – the sub’s crew and most of the Iron Man’s crew as well. Scott can already hear the _cha-ching_ of money rolling in when they crack into it and finally find what they’d been looking for. This is it. It has to be. 

“Luis,” he says. “Where’d my cigar go?” 

“Right here, boss.”

He hands it to him and Scott slips it behind his ear. Scott claps his hands together and looks at Hope. They’ve been diving into the perpetual darkness for weeks now. Thirteen thousand feet beneath the water’s surface, where the remains of the RMS Titanic lie soundless and undisturbed these eighty-something years. 

They found Pierce’s bedroom today–Alexander Pierce, son of the Pittsburgh steel tycoon, who’d survived that fateful night. Their homemade equipment has been able to maneuver through the deep ocean and tight spaces better than any other technology in the past. So many things are still down at the bottom of the ocean. Even Pierce’s bed, where the sonuvabitch slept. 

But they’ve found the safe. Here it is, the moment of truth. Here's where they find out if the time, the sweat, the money spent to charter this ship and these subs, to come out here to the middle of the North Atlantic were worth it. Inside that safe, hopefully, is one of the rarest treasures he and Hope have ever searched for.

A diamond. A very _rare_ blue diamond, worn by Louis XVI. Today known as the _Heart of the Ocean_. And eighty-four years ago, it went down with the ship. 

Scott wraps an arm around Hope’s waist to tug her in closer. They’ve been searching for historical treasure together for years now and this was always the most exciting part. Opening the chest. All their hard work coming together for one big payoff. 

“You ready, Hope?” 

Hope grins and nods. “Crack it open.”

Cameras rolling to mark this event, someone else on the team thrusts a crowbar into the door of the safe and shoves. Twists. Turns. Until the door is pried open, falling with a clang onto the deck, and thick, muddy water pours out of it. Cheers erupt around Scott as he and Hope toss their arms up in celebration along with them. Scott reaches into the safe. Pulls out some old, worthless junk. Old money. Bonds. A leather-bound folder. 

And nothing else. 

“Shit,” Scott mutters, checking again just for good measure. “Damn it.” 

“Hey, c’mon, Scottie,” Luis says. “There’re still plenty of other places it could be.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yes!” Luis pats his back. “There’s still tons of floor debris to go through. The mother’s bedroom. Pursuer’s safe on C deck…”

“Jimmy Hoffa’s briefcase,” Hope mutters. 

She gives a smartass smirk when they both glare at her. Behind them, all the museum experts that they personally vet before bringing them along are going through the few items they were able to save from the safe. 

“A dozen other places,” Scott agrees with Luis, eyes pointed at Hope. “You gotta trust our instincts. You know that.” 

A grin tugs at Hope’s mouth. Scott leans in and gives her a kiss as technicians begin sorting through the things that’ve come out of the safe. Scott and Hope follow them to the preservation room. There, the technicians are carefully placing the papers from the safe in a tray of water to separate them safely. Nearby, other artifacts from the stateroom are being washed and preserved. 

On the other side of the room, Hope is on the phone with Pepper Potts, wife of Tony Stark and CEO of Stark Industries, giving her an update of their progress. She, like Luis did earlier, is assuring her that the diamond can still be in plenty of places.

While she’s busy on the phone, Scott watches as a tech coaxes some letters in the water tray to one side with a tong. Beneath them is that leather folder. He hadn’t thought much of it when they pulled it out of the safe, but now that the mud and gunk are being washed away, he’s gotta rethink that. Because when they rinse away the dirt and grime, a drawing of a boy is revealed. 

Scott looks closely at the drawing, which is, amazingly, in excellent shape, though its edges have partially disintegrated. The young man is beautiful, and beautifully rendered. In his late teens or early twenties, he’s nude, though posed with a kind of casual modesty and elegance. He’s lying on an Empire divan, in a pool of light that seems to radiate outward from his eyes. Scrawled in the lower right corner is the date: _April 14 1912_. And the initials _SR_.

“Hey, Hope,” he says as he goes to take a closer look. “You got that picture of the diamond?”

“Mhm.” She pulls it out of her back pocket. “Here.” 

Scott holds it up and when Hope sees what he’s doing, she excuses herself from the call. They both compare the photo of the diamond to what’s showing up under the mess. 

This boy is not entirely nude. 

At his throat is a diamond necklace with one large stone hanging in the center.

Both Scott and Hope exchange a glance before looking back at the drawing again to make one last comparison to the photo. The photo and the drawing show the same things: that necklace. Scott knows without words that they’re on the same page. Whoever this person is – and it’s not Alexander Pierce – had worn the necklace on the night the Titanic sank. 

Together, they mumble, shocked and excited, “I’ll be goddamned.” 

**Brooklyn, New York**

***

The weather is beautiful for reading outside. Sun shining brightly and not a cloud in the sky. A perfect spring day. The patio garden is starting to bloom. All the best flowers. Vegetables, too. Bucky loves to get his hands dirty. Fresh soil and the right amount of water. Creating life with his own two hands. Even if they no longer resemble the smooth, strong hands from his youth. They’ve wrinkled with age. Lost so much of their strength. But that doesn’t stop Bucky from living with every breath he takes. 

It’s a promise. 

One he never intends to break.

Bucky breathes in everything. The sun. The breeze. The blossoms. So much life around him. A few birds fly around him. He smiles contently and reaches into his pocket for the bit of bread he’s got in there. Bucky rips off a few pieces, tossing them to the ground. Within moments, he’s surrounded by several feathered friends. Sparrows. Cardinals. Bluejays. Bucky whistles at them, just how he’d been taught so many years ago. The cardinals sing back to him. Makes another smile pull up on his face. 

This smile holds a trace of sadness. A lingering piece of loss that he’s never without. Even now, as he sings with the birds. 

When the cardinals fly away, Bucky opens the book in his lap. He’d go right into reading where he left off last night, but the television inside catches his attention.

“Everyone knows the familiar stories of the Titanic.”

Of course, it grabs his attention. He might have some trouble hearing nowadays, but that word… _Titanic_. It will always catch his ears. With some difficulties, Bucky manages to get his shaky bones to get out of the chair on his own. Cane in one hand, he makes his way back inside where his granddaughter is in the kitchen preparing lunch. 

“Grandpa?” she asks when she sees him. “Are you okay?”

“Mm.” Bucky nods. “Turn that up, Winnie. Please?”

“The T.V.?” 

She’s probably a little thrown. Bucky’s never been one for watching television. But when Bucky nods, she does as he asks and raises the volume. On the screen, is a man and a woman being interviewed. They’re on a boat.

“But what we’re interested in,” the man says, “are the _untold_ stories. The secrets locked deep inside the hull of the Titanic.” 

“With our robotic technology,” the woman goes on to tell the interviewer, “we’ve been able to go further _into_ the wreck than anyone’s ever had before.” 

Names appear on the screen, then. Scott Lang and Hope van Dyne. The screen also tells Bucky that they’re being funded by philanthropist Anthony Stark. The name pulls at Bucky’s heartstrings. They did always mean to call the family, but, well, there never really seemed a time good enough for such a conversation. 

“There is a bit of controversy surrounding your expedition, isn’t there?” the reporter asks. “Over salvage rights and even ethics. Some people are even calling you grave robbers.”

Ms. Van Dyne is the one who answers this, as respectfully as possible. “Rest assured, we _do_ have museum-trained experts here with us to properly preserve and catalog these relics.”

“Not to mention,” Mr. Lang continues, “we’re being funded by a descendant of one of the most famous victims of the tragedy. Howard Stark Sr.’s grandson, Tony Stark.”

“Take a look over here.” Ms. Van Dyne gestures behind them. “A piece of paper that’s been underwater for eighty-four years that our team managed to preserve. Should this really have remained at the bottom of the ocean forever?” 

The camera focuses on what they’re talking about. On the paper. A drawing, specifically. Galvanized, Bucky’s mouth drops open in utter disbelief. For one heartbeat, Bucky assumes he’s dreaming. He must be. There’s just no way. So he blinks. Tries to make himself wake up. When that does nothing, Bucky realizes this is actually happening. A breath catches in his throat. His heart skips a beat. A tremble runs through his entire body. 

He whispers, on a choke of another breath, “I’ll be goddamned.” 

***

**The Atlantic**

There’s always something spooky about the ocean at night. Even with the floodlights shining down on them and the water, a sense of unease remains. The darkness beyond them. The ghosts of what happened so many years ago. It’s haunting.

Scott and Hope stand on the deck watching the submersibles getting ready to go back into the water. One more sweep and they’ll call it a night. It’s been a long day.

“Hey, Scottie!” Luis yells over the sounds of machinery. “Hope! You guys got a call!” 

He’s headed toward them with the satellite phone in his hand. As soon as they turn around to face him, he quickens his pace. 

“Luis,” Hope says, “we’re in the middle of preparing for a dive.” 

“Trust me,” he replies. “You wanna take this call.” 

Exchanging a glance with Hope, Scott sighs and takes the phone from him. “This’d better be good.” 

“You gotta speak up,” Luis tells him as he raises the phone to his ear. “He’s a old guy.” 

“Great,” Hope mumbles.

Scott takes in a deep breath and prepares himself for whatever conversation he’s about to have.

“This is Scott Lang. What can I do for you, Mr–” 

“ _Rogers_ ,” Luis tells him. “Bucky Rogers.”

“–Mr. Rogers.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Lang,” Bucky greets, politely. “I saw you and Ms. Van Dyne on the news today. And the…” There’s a hesitation in his voice. “And the drawing.” 

“Uh-ha.” Scott squeezes between his eyes. “And how can I help you?”

“Well, I was just wondering whether or not you’d _found_ the _Heart of the Ocean_ yet, Mr. Lang.” 

Eyes growing wide, Scott swings a shocked look at Hope. When she asks him why he’s looking at her that way, it’s Luis who answers. 

“Told ya you wanted to take this call.”

Still looking at Hope, Scott says into the phone, “Okay, you have our attention, Bucky. Do you know who the man in the picture is?”

“Oh yes.” This is said with an amused tone. Almost as though there’s some amazed humor to be found somewhere Scott doesn’t know where to look. “The man in the picture is me.” 

***

“You’re not actually taking this seriously,” Hope yells over all the engine noise the next afternoon, “are you?”

They’re making their way up to the main deck to wait for the chopper that’ll be bringing this guy and his granddaughter in from Brooklyn. 

“We can’t just ignore it, Hope, can we?” Scott asks. “This can be _huge_.” 

“Yeah, _or_ he’s a goddamn liar,” she replies, taking him by the wrist to stop him. “He says he’s James Buchanan Barnes. But all records show that James Buchanan Barnes _died_ on the Titanic when he was seventeen, right?”

“That’s right.”

Hope’s arms cross. The look she’s giving him, all business and in no mood for any of his shenanigans, almost makes him laugh. Of the two of them, she’s always been the more pragmatic and sensible one. Hope will exhaust all possibilities before drawing a conclusion. She relies on science and facts and her unparalleled intelligence before proceeding with anything. Scott, on the other hand, is a little more willing to just dive in headfirst before testing the waters. 

“Scott,” Hope says. “If this guy is who he says he is, he’d be over a hundred years old.” 

Flashing a grin, Scott holds up one finger and says, “A hundred and one next month,” and continues for the deck. 

Behind him, Hope scoffs and follows. “Okay, so he’s a very _old_ goddamn liar. Listen, I’ve run the background on this guy.” 

Of course, she has. There’s no way she’d let this guy on the ship with them if she didn’t know something about him. Scott finds comfort in it. In her practical and realistic approach to life. 

Hope tells him, “I went all the way back to the twenties when this guy was a small-time actor–an _actor_ , Scott. Then he went on to become an author. I’ll say that again, he was an _actor_ and then an _author_. He made his living off of being a liar.”

“And everyone who knew about the diamond is supposed to be dead or on this boat,” Scott reminds her. “But _he_ knows.” 

Any other attempts at talking about this are drowned out by the sound of the incoming helicopter. Though Hope is still not convinced about this, she accompanies Scott to welcome their guests. 

Winds from the copter’s blades throw Hope’s hair around while they stand to the side watching suitcase after suitcase being unloaded. 

“Doesn’t exactly travel light,” Hope says, “does he?” 

Scott chuckles and once it’s clear, they go over there to introduce themselves. Bucky Rogers is a cute old man. Crinkles around his steel-blue eyes. Eyes that hold a lifetime of stories. 

“Mr. Rogers,” Scott greets, shaking his hand as he’s carefully lowered in his wheelchair onto the deck. “I’m Scott Lang. This is Hope Van Dyne. Welcome to the Iron Man.”

He smiles at both of them, thanking them for having him. Still on the helicopter is a young woman. Scott can only assume that’s the granddaughter, Winnie. Both Scott and Hope offer her a hand – she actually takes both – to help her onto the deck. Now that they’re both off the chopper, Scott assumes he can take them to their staterooms. Only before they can, Scott is handed a fishbowl with three goldfish swimming around. 

Eyes focused on the fish for a second, Scott – confused and a little flabbergasted – lifts his gaze to meet Hope’s. She simply smiles as though amused by his baffled expression. 

~~~

Bucky thought it’d be unnerving to be on a ship again after all these years. He’d been nervous about coming but had long ago made a promise to himself that he’d never let nerves stop him from doing what needed to be done. Not ever again. 

Now that he’s here, he feels oddly at peace. Almost as though this is exactly where he’s meant to be. As if, somehow, he’s come home. It’s comforting, and he wears a smile as he puts his framed pictures across the top of the dresser. He has to have his pictures when he travels. There’s one of him ice-fishing on Lake Ontario. Another of him holding up his very first published novel. Learning to box. His first trip to the Cyclone when it opened in 1927. 

A knock on the door catches Bucky’s attention. He turns to see Scott and Hope standing in the doorway. By the bed, Winnie – who’s helping him unpack – says hello.

“How’s everything?” Scott asks. “Are you staterooms all right?”

“Oh, yes.” Bucky looks around with a smile. This room is vastly different than the last room he had upon the ocean, and that’s just fine with him. “Oh, have you met my granddaughter, Winnie? She takes care of me.” 

They all smile and Winnie pats his hand. “We met just a little while ago, remember? On the deck?” 

That’s right. Sometimes, nowadays, Bucky has a little trouble remembering things. At a hundred years old, though, he’s pretty sure he’s got it good. 

On his lap, he’s got one last picture to be put on the dresser. His favorite. A photograph of his entire family. He finds a place for it. The spot closest to where his head will rest upon the pillow tonight. 

“Can we get you anything?” Hope asks. “Is there anything you’d like?”

Now that they’ve brought it up, Bucky knows exactly what he wants. He thought he might want to wait a little for this, but it’s now or never. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’d…I’d like to see my drawing.” 

“Sure,” Hope answers. “Right this way.” 

They lead him to another room where there are all sorts of equipment and computers. For preservation and cataloging, he’s told. There’re other people there as well. A man named Luis, who flashes him a big grin and waves. Kurt and Dave are working with some of that equipment. Looks like they’re carefully going through some artifacts they’ve probably found from within the wreckage. 

Over on one table, however, is a small, clear tray filled with water. Well, maybe not water, but preservatives. He’s been told that until they figure out the best way to preserve it, it must remain immersed so he can’t hold it. Bucky slowly peers over the side of the tray. It sways and rippled, almost as if alive and Bucky sees, for the first time in over eighty years, a piece of himself he never thought he’d see again. He can remember this all so perfectly. Laying back on the couch with his left arm stretched over his head. His right hand resting just below his bellybutton. The slight arc of his right knee. 

Bucky closes his eyes. Finds himself back there. To that night. Watching those bright blue eyes seeing things that Bucky never imagined. Making him more beautiful than he’d ever felt in his life. Those few wisps of blond hair sweeping across his forehead that he never even needed to move out of his way while he worked. Bucky smiles, remembering.

“Louis XVI wore a fabulous stone that was called the Blue Diamond of the Crown,” Scott starts saying, bringing Bucky away from then and back to the here and now. “It disappeared in 1792.”

“Just about the same time old Louie lost everything from the neck up,” Luis remarks from his computer. 

Hope scoffs and picks up from there. “The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped, too, and recut into a heart-like shape that became known as the _Heart of the Ocean_.” 

She shows them a picture of it. The heart-shaped, blue diamond on a chain of smaller white ones. Not that Bucky needs one. He knows what it looks like. 

“This pencil rendering,” Scott says, “is exceptional.”

“Conte crayon,” Bucky corrects. Everyone there, who probably didn’t even realize he’d been paying attention, stops and stares at him. “He used Conte crayons. Those were his favorites.”

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” Scott shakes his head. “The, uh, _Heart of the Ocean_ it’d be worth more than the Hope Diamond, today.” 

Bucky touches the spot it once rested on his skin. The one time he wore it. Only that once; when he was drawn wearing it. 

“It was a dreadful, heavy thing,” he tells them. “I only wore it this once.” 

A hand rests upon his shoulder. He looks up at Winnie who’s looking at the drawing and then at him. She offers a calm smile. 

“You really think this is you, Grandpa?”

Almost insulted that she would even ask that, Bucky throws her a scandalized look. “It _is_ me, dear.” He smiles. “Wasn’t I a dreamboat?” 

That gets him a round of soft chuckles and no one actually refutes his self-compliment. After spending years with so little confidence, he’s not about to give it up now. 

“We tracked it down through insurance records,” Scott says about the diamond. “Under terms of absolute secrecy.” 

“Bucky,” Hope says. “Can you tell us who the claimant was?” 

Of course. Bucky gets it. They’re not just gonna start trusting him unless he proves that he is who he says he is. That’s fine with him.

“I imagine it was someone named Pierce.” 

She exchanges a smile with Scott, who chuckles like he’s just opened the best gift he could ever get. 

“Charles Pierce, that’s right,” Hope replies. “Pittsburgh steel tycoon.” 

“The claim was for a diamond necklace his son, Alexander, bought for his fiancé,” Scott explains. “You. That was one week before he sailed on Titanic. The claim was filed right after the sinking.”

“So the diamond had to have gone down with the ship,” Hope says. To who, Bucky’s not exactly sure. She does, however, direct her next comment to Winnie. “You see that date there?”

On the corner of the drawing. Bucky doesn’t need to look. He already knows exactly what date is scribbled there. But Winnie leans over to look at it. 

“April 14, 1912?” Winnie shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

“That means if your grandfather is who he says he is,” Hope tells her, “he was wearing the necklace the night the Titanic sank.” 

Scott crouches down in front of Bucky. Excited grin on his face.

“Which makes _you_ ,” he says, “our new best friend.” 

“We’ll happily compensate you,” Hope tells him, “for anything you tell us that can lead to the diamond’s discovery.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t want any money.”

A little crease forms between Hope’s eyes. She and Scott exchange another glance. It shouldn’t be surprising. People often don’t understand why someone would do something and not desire any monetary reward. A lifetime ago, Bucky may have worn the same expression. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to change. Bucky learned that the hard way.

“You don’t want anything?” Scott asks. 

“You can give me this.” Bucky touches the tray his drawing is in. “If anything I tell you is helpful, this is all I want.”

Scott grins and shakes his hand. “Deal. Come on.”

They bring Bucky over to the other side of the room. There, he’s shown a table with a velvet cloth on it. Folded. When they unfold it to show him what’s inside, Bucky gasps. 

“These are some of the things we recovered from your stateroom,” Hope tells him. 

Bucky’s fingers are already skimming over the few items that lay before him. He caresses the music box – tortoise shelled inlaid with mother of pearl – first, and wonders, briefly, if they have the key for it as well. A thought he shakes away quickly. Even if they did, the box has been sitting at the bottom of the ocean for years. Its music was silenced years ago. 

One of his butterfly cufflinks has managed to come out of the ocean. This, he picks up and turns between his fingers. They were his favorites. 

Next to it, a silver pocket watch. The brilliant shine is gone. There are so many nics and dings and scratches on it now. Bucky pops open the lids to see the glass face cracked down the middle. The time still reads 8:23. Bucky snaps it closed again, a long ago guilt rumbling through his stomach. He puts it back among his other found possessions. 

“I never thought I’d see these again,” he murmurs. “It’s…extraordinary.” Truly, it is, even if he can’t quite manage to get the enthusiasm to reach his voice. “The hands that touched them…” Bucky looks at them, fingers to wrists. “They’ve changed quite a lot.” His fingers brush across the silver and pearl art-nouveau brooch. “This was my mother’s. She wanted to go back for it.” He huffs an emotional chuckle. “She caused quite a fuss over it.”

Bucky picks up one more thing. A little bird. Not real, of course. The colors have mostly been washed away, but a hint of soft greens and blues remain on its feathers. Bucky whistles to it. Soft. It won’t whistle back. 

A rush of emotions that’ve lain dormant for eight decades hits him all at once. Bucky swallows roughy and places the bird back on the velvet cloth.

He sighs quietly. Hopes no one else notices. Which they must not since Winnie says nothing and Scott crouches down beside him. 

“Are you ready, Bucky?” he asks. “To go back to Titanic?” 

He’s not sure what the answer to that question really is. This is where he’s meant to be, he’s sure of that. But here and Titanic are two different places. 

Regardless, whether he’s ready or not, Bucky nods, and they move into another room. This one is dimly lit, and most of the light comes from the wall of monitors. Bucky’s intentional tries to ignore those screens. On them, he knows, are images of what remains on the ocean floor. His eyes flick up to them anyway, for just a second. The bow. Of course, that’s what he’d see first. The bow of the ship covered in rust and decay dripping from the rails. His heart pounds at the sight.

“Are you okay, Bucky?” Hope asks. “Is this too much?”

“Mm-mm.” Bucky shakes his head, eyes flicking back up to the monitor where the image of the bow’s railings is being fed live through a sub’s camera from twelve thousand feet beneath them. “I’m fine.”

“The bow’s stuck in the bottom like a’ ax,” Luis explains. “Happened in the impact. Look, I can show you.”

“Uh,” Scott says. “I don’t know if Bucky wants to–” 

“No, that’s all right,” Bucky interrupts. “I’m curious.” 

Luis claps his hands together. Rubs them excitedly as he does something at his computer. An image appears on the screen. A virtual replica of the Titanic moving through the water and headed toward the iceberg.

“Aight, check it,” he says. “Big lady hits the berg on the starboard side, that’s ocean speak for right.” Bucky watches the images happening. The digital ship strikes, ripping open its side. “She bumps along it, punching holes into the side below the waterline like bambambam!”

He demonstrates with his hands. Excited. That’s not so surprising. Most people are fascinated with the tragedy. 

“Then the forward compartments start to flood and as the water rises, it spills over these watertight bulkheads.” He points to them as it happens on the screen. “But homies didn’t build them higher than E deck. So then, as the bow goes down, the stern rises up. Slow at first and then faster and faster until her whole ass is sticking up in the air.” Luis holds his hand up as though demonstrating. “And she got a big ass. But the hull wasn’t designed to handle the pressure so she splits in half.” He makes a noise like something’s tearing in two. “That makes the stern fall back level. As the bow sinks, it pulls the stern vertical and finally detaches.” On the screen now, is the stern, upright, and Bucky feels a tight pinch in his throat. “The stern section just bobs there for a bit until it floods and finally goes under about 2:20am and that’s two hours and forty minutes _after_ the collision. That section lands about a half a mile away, going twenty or thirty knots when it finally hits the ocean floor.” Luis imitates a crashing sound as the image hits. “Pretty sick, huh?”

Bucky chuckles at his enthusiasm. That is, after all, how it happened. In a very forensic detailing of it, anyway. 

“It’s something all right,” he says. “I must say, though, the experience was slightly different.” 

“Can you tell us about it, Bucky?” Hope asks. 

Now that the question being posed, Bucky swallows around that blade in his throat and forces himself to do the one thing he’s been trying not to do. His eyes finally lift to the monitors that show him the ghost that’s been a part of his life since he was seventeen. What he sees, are the decayed remains of the dining hall doors. 

They’re covered in rust and decay. There’s not much more left than a shell of what it once was and yet, for just one blink, Bucky sees it the way he did the very first time he laid eyes on it. Walnut. Copper fixtures. A doorman opening it for him. He hears, briefly, the ghostly sound of the waltz music that played followed immediately by the faint and echoing sound of an officer's voice, English accented, calling for women and children only. Screaming faces in a running crowd. Pandemonium and terror. People crying, praying, kneeling on the deck. They’re all just flashes in the darkness that’s never really disappeared.

Bucky looks at another monitor, the camera moving down a rusted, debris-filled corridor. He watches the endless row of doorways sliding past, like dark mouths. An image appears. A child, maybe three years old, standing ankle-deep in water in the middle of an endless corridor. Lost. Alone. Crying. 

Bucky, shaken by the flood of memories and emotions, wells up in tears and catches his mouth with both hands to smother down a sob. He didn’t realize just how hard this would be. The room spins around him once. He gasps. 

“I’m taking him to lay down,” Winnie says, suddenly at his side. “Come on, Grandpa.”

“I’m fine.”

“But–”

“ _No_.” This needs to be done. Someone has to tell their story. Gone is the sweet old man they probably expected. He’s been replaced by the steel he knows he’s made of. “I’m fine. I can do this.” 

A recorder is placed on the table in front of him. Scott inches his chair forward while Hope remains standing. 

“Tell us your story, Bucky.”

Eyes closing, Bucky breathes out softly. “It’s been eighty-four years…”

“That’s all right,” Scott says. “Just tell us anything he can remember.”

When Scott started speaking, Bucky’s eyes opened again. Eyebrows lifting, Bucky clicks his tongue and folds his arms. 

“Would you like to hear this story or not, Mr. Lang?” 

On the other side of the table, Hope snickers. Scott grins, keeping his mouth shut now as he nods for Bucky to go on.

“It’s been eighty-four years. I can still smell the fresh paint. I can feel the salty sea air against my skin. I can hear all the people. Everyone came to see it. Even people who weren’t boarding. They just couldn’t miss their chance to see The Ship of Dreams.” Bucky grins softly, his eyes seeing things that only exist in his memory now. “It was, you know. It truly was…”


	2. April 10th, 1912

_**April 10th, 1912** _

**_Southhampton, England_ **

In the back of the silver-gray Daimler-Benz, dressed in one of his best suits and bowler hat, Bucky Barnes closes his eyes and leans his head against the window. Ahead of them, the trip has come to something of a halt. A delay, that is. Nothing can stop the inevitable. He’s resigned himself to that much. The crowds of people only get thicker and thicker the closer to the Southampton Harbor they get. To the Ship of Dreams. That’s what they call her. The RMS Titanic. Where the china has never been used. The sheets, never slept in.

The ship looms in front of them, rising mountainous in the distance, its buff-colored funnels standing against the sky like the pillars of a great temple. Crewmen move across the deck, dwarfed by the awesome scale of the steamer. A crowd of hundreds blackens the pier next to the ship like ants on a jelly sandwich all clamoring for a piece, even just a glimpse. On the pier, horse drawn vehicles, lorries, and other motorcars move slowly through the dense throng of people. The atmosphere is simply saturated with excitement and giddiness. People embrace in tearful farewells, or wave and shout bon voyage wishes to friends and relatives on the decks above. Around the car, people are streaming to board the ship, jostling with hustling seamen and stokers, porters, and barking White Star Line officials. 

This should be just as exciting for Bucky as it is for everyone else. Everyone else’s excitement washes over him in cold, uncomfortable ways. Wrong. All wrong. Their excitement does nothing to change the truth. This ship – in all its glory and glamour and fame – will be bringing Bucky back to America. In chains. 

All the Titanic does is remind him of what’s coming. Yes, America might be his homeland, but he won’t be returning home. Not really. Not to New York, anyway. A thought that has him sighing as he leans his head against the window of the car. 

“Please, James,” his mother, Winifred, says, exasperated and probably tired of it. “Stop sighing your life away over there.”

“Yes, Mother,” he answers as he’s been doing more and more often since his father passed away last year. 

“Honestly,” she goes on, making sure her tall and wide, Dupioni styled hat sits straight on her head. “Sometimes you make me wonder. You’ve been complaining this whole trip that you want to go home. Now you are, on the most luxurious ship no less, and you’re still not happy.” 

Because I’m not going _home_ , Mother, he wants to say. Philadelphia is not home. Philadelphia, where he’ll no longer be James Buchanan Barnes, but James Buchanan Pierce, instead. When he marries Alexander Pierce, currently in the motorcar ahead of them with that ghastly man-servant of his, Brock Rumlow, Bucky will find himself in a brand new life. Not a home. Not his. Alex’s estate will never be his. Nothing will ever be his again.

It’s not completely unheard of for someone to harbor feelings for the same sex. Sometimes, it’s even acceptable. When the circumstances are right. Apparently, these are the right kinds of circumstances. Alex may be fifteen years older than him but his prominent family and wealth afford him such choices. 

This new life of Bucky’s will be nothing more than serving as a pretty, fancy prize placed by Alex’s side, making sure his house and home are what they ought to be, _pleasing_ his new husband. Fake smiles and the best clothing and conversations that never end about the same, boring things. Over and over. Day after day. For the rest of his life.

A lifetime ago, Bucky had dreams of his own. Seeing the world. No corner left unturned. Perhaps attending university. Studies beyond the basic mathematics and literature that’d been forced down his throat. He’d had enough of reading The Bible and other books approved for him. Bucky wanted to fulfill his lust for the written word with his own tastes. Books and stories and tales that the so-called status quo would never approve of. Works by Emily Brontë and Charles Dickens and Alexandre Dumas. Even the more modern _The Psychopathy of Everyday Life_. 

Those dreams – the dream of discovering his own person inside and on his own – died so long ago. When his father did. Which, at seventeen, shouldn’t be that much, but, well, one year can be an eternity sometimes. He’d never realized just how deeply his life hinged on money and wealth. When his father was alive, the money had just always _been_ there. A never-ending flow. 

Things changed the minute his father died. 

Bucky grew up privileged, he now understood, and he’d taken that for granted. The finest tutors. Fanciest clothes. The best food. Never thought anything would change it. Everything he ever needed had been at his fingertips. Then, it all changed in the course of one dreadful night. In one fell swoop, Bucky's life turned completely on its axis. Wrong was now right. Right turned left. Down is up. And Bucky's had no chance to make sense of any of it. 

Ahead of them, the crowds of people finally start to disperse and the cars they’re in crawl to a stop. For just one second, Bucky can’t breathe. This is it, then. As much as he wants to run, screaming as he does, there’s no place for him to go. This is his life now. Nothing he does can change that. 

The driver’s already gotten down from the front seat to open the door for Winifred. As he helps her out, Bucky opens his own door. Hand atop his head to keep the winds from blowing his hat away, Bucky finally glances up to take his first real look at this so-called ship of dreams. He can smell the fresh paint and the salty sea air, but as his eyes scan Titanic herself, taking it in with cool appraisal, he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of emptiness. 

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” he remarks as Alex makes his way over with that horribly charming smile on his face. “It’s just a ship. It doesn’t even look any bigger than the Mauritania.”

Alex lets loose an amused chuckle and pats the top of Bucky’s head as though he’s an inept child. 

“You can be blasé about some things, James, but not about Titanic.” He points to the ship, making sure Bucky’s looking too by holding onto his shoulders so that he can’t turn away. “She’s over a hundred feet longer than Mauritania and _far_ more luxurious. It has squash courts, a Parisian cafe…even Turkish baths.” Alex lets go of him now and holds his arm out for Winifred. “Your son is far too difficult to impress, Winifred.” 

“Mm, yes.” Though she nods, she also places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Sharing some joke with him, maybe. Bucky doesn’t get the punchline. “He’s always been a bit of a wonder.” At one time, she may’ve said this teasingly. Now, Bucky’s not so sure how she means it. Especially when she goes on to say, “Maybe it was having him privately tutored. I suppose we’ll see the difference between him and his sister once Rebecca returns from her boarding school for summer holiday. So, this is the ship they say is unsinkable.” 

The way she so easily segues from criticizing Bucky to talking about the ship simply amazes him. And hurts. It hurts Bucky in places he never even knew existed.

Things weren’t always like this. They’d been happy once. Close. Smiles and laughter over the supper. In private, anyway. At least, Bucky _thinks_ he remembers being happy. As a widow, however, and from one of the most prestigious families of New York, Winifred runs her home with an iron fist lest anyone find out the precarious situation they’re in. 

“This ship _is_ unsinkable,” Alex answers with so much enthusiasm Bucky wonders if it’s real or not. “God himself couldn’t sink this ship.”

_Too bad_ , Bucky thinks and then winces at his own horrible thought. He wouldn’t want innocent people to be hurt just to save him from his plight. 

Behind him, Bucky hears a White Star porter scurry over to Alex to talk to him about where they need their luggage to be brought and Alex – more than likely stuffing money into the man’s palm – directing him to take care of it. Alex never tires of the effect money has on the unwashed masses and when the porter’s eyes widen at the fiver he’s been slipped, he smirks.

It’s Brock Rumlow, a tall and impassive man, dour as an undertaker, that then takes over and tells the man where everything should be brought. The White Star man looks stricken when he sees the enormous pile of steamer trunks and suitcases loading down the second car, including wooden crates and a steel safe. He whistles frantically for some cargo-handlers nearby who come running. Alex breezes on, leaving the minions to scramble. He quickly checks his pocket watch.

“We better hurry,” he says, indicating the way to the First Class gangway ramp. “This way.”

“James,” Winifred says, looping their arms so that Bucky can escort her to the docks while Alex is busy. “Stay close, dear. We don’t want to be separated.”

The validity of that statement is very much up for debate. Unfortunately, Bucky doesn’t have enough evidence on his side of the argument, and he simply nods.

“Yes, Mother.” 

They move into the crowd, Bucky's maid, Darcy, hustling behind them, laden with bags of his most recent purchases–things too delicate for the baggage handlers. Alex leads, of course, weaving between vehicles and handcarts, hurrying passengers – mostly Second Class and steerage – and wellwishers. Most of the First Class passengers are avoiding the smelly press of the dockside crowd by using an elevated boarding bridge, twenty feet above.

They pass a line of steerage passengers in their coarse wool and tweed clothing, queued up inside movable barriers like cattle in a chute. A health officer examines their heads one by one, checking scalp and eyelashes for lice. Bucky is momentarily distracted by a well-dressed young man cranking the handle of a wooden cinematograph camera mounted on a tripod. He’s filming his young bride in front of the ship, though, she stands stiffly and smiles, self-conscious.

“Look up at the ship, darling,” he directs her, “that's it. You're amazed! You can't believe how big it is! Like a mountain. That's great.” 

The woman, without an acting fiber in her body, does a bad pantomime of awe, hands raised. Bucky smiles, and wonders what it would take to get in front of a camera like that. A fleeting thought which he dismisses immediately. A pipe dream. Nothing more. 

Ahead of him, Alex is jostled by two yelling steerage boys as they shove past him. And he is bumped again a second later by the boys' father.

“ _Excuse_ you _,”_ Alex harrumphs _._ “Why I never.”

The Cockney man yells an apology over his shoulder before rushing after his children, shouting for them to slow down.

“Steerage swine,” Alex mutters and pinches his nose closed. “Must have missed his monthly bath.”

While Bucky rolls his eyes, Winifred trills a giggle at Alex’s comment. Sometimes, with the way she indulges him, Bucky wonders if she shouldn’t just marry him.

“Honestly, Alex,” Winifred says, “if you weren't forever booking everything at the last instant, we could have gone through the terminal instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family.”

“All part of my charm, Winifred.” He smirks at her and adds, “At any rate, it was my darling fiancé’s beauty rituals which made us late.”

Bucky nearly stops short at that comment. He glares at the back of Alex’s head, imagining his eyes able to burn a hole through it. 

“You _told_ me to change,” he reminds him, remembering clearly the disapproving look he received when Alex, unannounced, walked into his changing room.

“I couldn’t very well let you wear black on a sailing day,” Alex replies. “It’s bad luck.”

“I felt like black.”

It only felt appropriate. Maybe no one has died but it certainly feels like a funeral. In any case, Alex’s demand for Bucky’s change of clothes resulted in the burgundy suit he’s wearing now. Alex dislikes this one but hadn’t the time to voice any discontent. 

Alex guides them out of the way of a horse-drawn carriage carrying crates meant to be loaded onto the ship. Taking a quick glance, Bucky reads the wording on the crates. Marmalade. Just as the carriage is out of sight, Alex drops back and slips his arm around Bucky’s, steering him away from his mother.

“Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites no less,” he says. “And you act as if you're going to your execution.”

No truer words have ever been spoken. Not to Bucky anyway. He looks up as the hull of Titanic looms over them–a great iron wall, pitch black and severe.

Alex says, “When I do something nice for you, James, I expect at least a modicum of gratitude, not this sullen attitude.”

The warning in his statement is very clear. Alex will, no doubt, expect a great deal of respect from Bucky once they’re married. No room for anything he considers undesirable. Although Bucky’s been desperately trying to hold onto a sense of himself for as long as possible, he feels more and more of him slipping away every day.

“Of course, darling,” Bucky replies, and forces the best smile he can manage. “I apologize.”

“No need, my dear,” he says even though that’s not true and he most definitely wanted an apology. “Boys such as yourself are bound to make mistakes and I am not without patience. Never you fret, we’ll make a man out of you yet.”

The insult disguised as encouragement makes Bucky’s stomach turn and his face burn. He’s careful not to let those feelings betray his composure as Alex motions him forward, and they enter the gangway to the D Deck doors with a sense of overwhelming dread.

As they ascend the ramp toward Titanic, Alex recites their parlor suite numbers – B-52, 54, and 56, as if anyone could forget – while stewards welcome person after person with a smile. They’re not sharing a bedroom. By a stroke of luck, Bucky managed to convince Alex that it’d be inappropriate to do so and Alex agreed to let him room with his mother instead. 

Alex’s hand closes possessively over Bucky’s arm as he escorts him up the gangway and the black hull of Titanic swallows them.

“Welcome aboard,” they’re greeted like everyone else as they step inside, surrounded by First Class opulence. 

For everyone else, Titanic really is the ship of dreams. It’s truly grand and spectacular in every way. For Bucky, it’s a floating prison. Here just to take him to America where his nightmare can truly begin. Where he’ll officially become the property of Alexander Pierce. Stange, that. How one thing can mean something different to so many people. 

Outwardly, Bucky is everything a well-brought-up gentleman of his tastes should be. Quiet. Respectful. Docile. 

Inward, he’s screaming. Those chains around him tighten. Grow heavier. Make him sink down…down…down. To the cold, dark depths of murky waters where he just can’t resurface.

~~~

Not too far from the Southampton docks, in a small pub that smells of stale beer and smoke, Steve Rogers sits at a small, round table with five playing cards in his hand and a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. Though clean-shaven, his dark-gold hair, a little longer than socially acceptable – he hasn’t had the few extra coins to get it cut lately – swings across his brow. His clothes are rumpled from having been slept in the night before. Wearing his best poker face, he swings his gaze to Sven sitting next to him who glances at him above his own cards. Steve’s eyes flick next to the man opposite him, Ola. Ola’s gaze – glare, really – has yet to drop from him ever since Steve raised the stakes of their game. Those two have been having a sullen argument since then. Not that Steve can understand what they’re saying.

On his other side is Sam. He’s the one who keeps throwing nervous glances at him. After all, a dazzling smile and a flash of his big, blue eyes were all it took to convince him to drop that last bit of money between them into the pile accumulating in the center of the table. Steve’s promises of trust and faith clearly do little to soothe his concerns that they’re about to lose every penny to their name. 

“Steve,” he grumbles as Steve trades one card for another. “This is _crazy_. You bet everything we have.” 

Smile turning up on his lips, Steve inhales some of his cigarette before holding it between his fingers and chuckling on the exhale. 

“How many times I gotta tell ya?” he says back to him. “When you got nothin’...” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam interrupts, having heard this phrase from Steve several times already. “You got nothin’ to lose.”

Whatever Sam mumbles next Steve doesn’t quite catch, but he’s certain he must be cursing the day they met under his breath. He’s said it to him on numerous occasions after all these months traveling across Europe together. 

They’d met by chance at a pub in Dublin, where Steve’d been challenged to a game of snooker for a pocketful of money. A wager that had been too good to pass up despite his challenger’s obvious skill. Carol, her name was. Her friend, Maria, had been somewhere else in the pub repairing an overhead electric light for the pub’s owner. Steve had reason to suspect they were more lovers than friends. The way they looked at another. Held each other close when simply standing together. Broke into song – high-pitched and off-key – and then dissolved into laughter. They looked sweet together, and when they thought no one was looking shared a kiss or two. 

Of course, they would have to keep their love a secret. Not only were they both women – and love between people of the same sex was so often twisted and perverted as something unnatural for no good reason – they were also different races. Carol, with her tall, muscular build and big blue eyes and probably already criticized for keeping her golden hair cut short, had creamy white skin. Maria, on the other hand, also firm with muscles, had big brown eyes and dark black hair, a dazzling smile, and warm brown skin. Just as the idea that two women or men shouldn’t be together, Steve knows that too many people believe the same about people of different races. 

Regardless of all those absurd opinions, Steve went on enjoying love in all its many wondrous forms. Even if he lost the snooker game that night – though he did hold his own longer than expected – and since, according to Carol, he’d been such a good sport about it, she left Steve with a few coins. 

Steve thanked her and went up to order himself another pint to share with her and Maria where he got a hearty slap on the back. The slap was accompanied by a merry round of laughter and Sam’s gap-toothed smile. On his rich, brown skin, a thin ring of sweat had accumulated beneath his cap in the warm pub, smudging when he pulled it off to introduce himself. Which he did by first teasing Steve about biting off more than he could chew. 

“You’re mighty sure-footed for your age, aren’t you?”

Steve had laughed and shrugged. “Guess I gotta be. Been on my own since I was fifteen.”

“Well, lemme buy you a drink,” Sam offered. “And we’ll see how self-possessed you are.”

They bonded over that remark while having a few rounds of drinks with the ladies, and the fact that they were not only both Americans but hailed from New York–Steve from Brooklyn, Sam from Harlem. When they left the pub that night, it was in agreement that they’d meet again the following afternoon to head for London. Together. 

Traipsing across Europe – stopping first in Ireland to see his country of birth for the first time since he was just shy of old enough to remember it and then going wherever the wind carried them next – has been the adventure Steve hoped it would be. Adventures, in Steve’s opinion, is what life is all about. He lives for whatever life will throw at him next. 

This past year, he and Sam have slept under bridges and park benches. Rundown inns and rooms for let above pubs. They earned whatever scraps they could – be it working for a few pennies or for food – in their own ways, saving together whatever they could. Between the both of them working odd jobs wherever they could find paying wages and Steve’s street drawings and Sam’s shaving and barber skills, they’ve spent the year abroad in high-spirits and merriment, even when luck failed to be on their side.

Meeting Sam, though, has been one of Steve’s luckiest moments. He’s truly, sincerely a good man. Smiles with meaning. Takes life’s hardships with his chin up and a fist thrown when it’s needed. Warm, brown eyes kind. Steve can see the same fire in Sam’s soul that he feels burning within his own. Not raging out of control, but so much more than a simple orange glow of smoldering embers. 

That shared passion for life, however, has a quicker limit in Sam than it does Steve, apparently, since Sam is _still_ grumbling under his breath that Steve’s bet _everything_ they have. But it’s hand to God, _not_ Steve’s fault. It’s these two strangers who’re the ones that made it completely irresistible and presented such a challenge. And, as Sam learned the night they met, Steve can’t back down from this sort of challenge. 

Because on top of that pile of coins and a few bills in the center of the table, are two tickets for the RMS Titanic. They’re shouting to Steve. _Third Class, White Star Line, RMS Titanic_. Steve couldn’t just ignore them when Ola pulled them out of his pocket and waved them like paper gold in front of him. 

The ship can be seen from the window where they’re sitting. In all the glory and dreams people say it’s made out of, rising above the tops of buildings like a city skyline. Thick, black smoke billows into the air. The promise of destiny. _Steve’s_ destiny waits for him on that ship; he _knows_ it. The steamer's whistle echoes across Southampton, calling him. 

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Sam grunts. “You’re gonna leave me in the lurch here, I know it. We’re gonna lose our shirts.” 

Another smile, lighthearted and playful, tugs at the corners of Steve’s mouth. He takes another puff of his cigarette and, eyes still on his own cards, leans toward him. 

“Now would I ever do that to you, Sammy?” 

Sam scoffs. “Not on purpose, no.”

That smile on Steve’s face becomes more defined. He loves the faith that Sam has in him. That he knows Steve would never lead him down a path to Hell. Not on purpose, anyway. Even if things ever do head south, the confidence Steve has in their loyalty to have each other’s backs is unparalleled. 

“All right, gentlemen,” Steve says, cigarette back between his lips. “Moment of truth. Someone’s life’s about to change.” He glances to his right. “Sam?”

A huff rolls out of Sam’s flared nostrils. He shakes his head and slams his cards down to show his absolutely worthless hand. 

“Nothin’,” Steve says. 

“Right.” The word comes out between Sam’s clamped jaw. “ _Nothing_.” 

Lips stretched in apology – Steve’s seen that look before and _if_ things don’t go their way, he’s in a hell of a lot of trouble – he turns his gaze to Ola. Ola stares him down. Steve figures he’s trying to determine his strategy. What he’s got up his sleeve, so to speak. To be honest, Steve’s never understood how he’s perfected his poker face. He’s not a liar. Never has been. He couldn’t even get away with stealing a cookie out of the cookie jar. 

After a few moments of this staredown, Ola glances back at his cards and sighs. He, too, has nothing. 

“Sven?” Steve asks.

For a few seconds, Sven just holds Steve’s gaze. A smile breaks across his face as he lays his cards across the table. 

“Two pair,” he says, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

From next to Steve, Ola cheers and holds his glass to toast with his friend. They clank their glasses hard enough that beer spills over the sides and all over their hands. 

Sam’s now turned a vicious glare in Steve’s direction as Steve goes on just staring at the good hand that’s been placed before him. He smothers his face in his hands and huffs something into them. Steve can’t totally understand but he’s sure he hears the words _fuck_ and _knew it_ in there. 

“Two pair,” Steve says, offhandedly. “That is a good hand. It really is.” He chews on his lip and sighs. “I promised you an adventure, Sam. I’m sorry.” 

Hands flying away from his face, Steve’s actually pretty sure Sam’s _just_ keeping from punching him. Those normally warm, compassionate eyes are burning into him right now.

“You’re damn _right_ you’re sorry! _Steve_!” Sam exclaims. “You just lost _everything_! Now we gotta–”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Steve interrupts with an added hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Our adventure in Europe is over cause we’re going to _America_ , baby!” He slams his cards down and in his haste almost places them face down. “Full house, boys!” 

An elated laugh rises out of Sam’s mouth. Stunned and thrilled at the same time. It must take him a full second to truly appreciate what’s just happened but when he does, he flies to his feet and quite literally kisses Steve right on the lips. 

“Rogers, you _son of a bitch_!” he shouts through his uncontained laughter. “Oh, I’d _kill_ you if I didn’t love you!”

Arms tossed around his friend, Steve hugs Sam tight and kisses the side of his head, his lips just skimming his flat cap. When he lets go, he holds Sam’s cheeks between his hands as they both continue laughing in their celebration. Steve reaches for the tickets and kisses them both before handing them to Sam.

“Sorry, boys,” Steve says as he begins to collect the rest of the pot. “No hard feelings!”

Unfortunately, just as Steve would scoop the remainder of their winnings into his hands, Sven shoots out of his seat, chair falling behind him, and snatches Steve by the front of his shirt. Hand balled up in a fist, he pulls his arm back while Steve prepares himself for a punch to the face. He has just enough time to wonder if he and Sam’ll be dragged into another brawl – this one having _nothing_ to do with Steve sticking his nose in someone else’s business or Sam being right there as his wingman. 

Before Sven can unleash his hit at Steve, he lets go of the handful of Steve’s shirt and turns just enough to hit Ola instead. Hard enough that it knocks the man right out of his seat. While Sven stands over his dazed and confused friend, still sprawled across the floor and shaking his head like he has no idea _what_ just happened, Sven takes to yelling things in German at him. Steve can only assume it has something to do with _Ola_ being the one to up the ante by adding their tickets. The tickets that now belong to Steve and Sam. 

A thought that has Steve roaring with life and unable to keep back the laugh at the two Germans yelling at each other. He flings an arm over Sam’s shoulders and rubs his hand over his head. All the money is now stashed in Sam’s pockets where it’ll be safe.

“We’re goin’ _home_ , Sammy!” Steve exclaims. “America here we come!”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” the barkeep says over the uproarious laughter that fills the pub, pointing to the clock on the wall that informs them it’s almost noon. “ _Titanic_ is headed for America…in _five_ minutes.” 

Steve and Sam look at each other at the same time. They each mutter a curse of their own before snatching their duffles and sprinting to the harbor. 

They tear through milling crowds next to the terminal. Shouts go up behind them as they jostle slow-moving gentlemen. They dodge piles of luggage and weave through groups of people. They burst out onto the pier and Steve comes to a dead stop, staring at the cast wall of the ship's hull, towering seven stories above the wharf and over an eighth of a mile long. The Titanic is monstrous. Sam runs back and grabs Steve by the shirt, and they hurry toward the third class gangway at E deck.

They’ve nearly tripped over their own feet several times in their rush to get there. This means there’s no time to go through the thorough health inspection only given to Third Class passengers. 

Nothing’s going to deter Steve. Not now. And he knows damn well that Sam’s not gonna be slowed down by no ridiculous inspection. 

“We’re ridin’ in high style now!” Sam shouts back to Steve as they keep running. “We’re a couple’a regular swells!” 

“Practically god damn royalty!” Steve yells back. “About damn time if ya ask me!” 

A horn blares. Loud and demanding. The last of the passengers have just stepped off the loading dock and onto the ship. Panic bubbles in Steve’s stomach as he pushes his legs faster and tugs on Sam’s arm as he squeaks by him.

“On your left!” Steve shouts as he passes him. “C’mon, Wilson, I thought you were faster than this!” 

“I _am_ faster than this, Rogers! Maybe if you didn’t make me lose ten years of my life back there…!”

“I’m gonna leave you behind!”

“Go ‘head! I got the tickets!”

Steve throws his head back in laughter, the cool, English air filling his lungs with that excitement he’s been chasing for years. His foot hits the loading dock just as it’s being pulled away from the ship.

“Wait, wait!” Steve shouts as he and Sam sprint up it. “Wait, we’re passengers, we’re passengers!”

Sam, right on Steve’s heels, holds out their tickets as Steve stands there, out of breath and ready to charge by. The crewman doesn’t take them. He looks a little nonplussed. Like these two running up the ramp at full speed and claiming to be passengers are the last thing he expected. When that expression clears, he finally takes a look at the tickets held in their outstretched hands. 

“Have you been through the inspection queue?” he asks. “You can’t board if–”

“Yes, we have,” Steve lies straight to the man’s face. This is a lie he doesn’t really feel bad about telling. “We don’t have any lice, promise. Besides, we’re American.” When the man’s eyes flick to Sam, Steve is quick to add, “ _Both_ of us.” 

“Harlem,” Sam sneaks into the conversation, letting his New York accent slip between his words, “Born and raised. Ever been?”

“Er.” The man shakes his head. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Look me up any time you’re in town,” Sam says, smirking. “I’ll show ya all the good spots.” 

Clearly even more perplexed than when he was when they first reached him, the crewman shakes his head, likely trying to get his thoughts back in order. 

“Right.” He nods and takes the tickets. “Come aboard. Enjoy your stay on the Titanic.” 

“Thanks, friend!” Steve says, clapping a hand on his shoulder before rushing inside with Sam right behind him. “C’mon, Sam! We can’t miss this!”

“Miss what?” Sam asks as Steve continues to tug him along. “I don’t think this is the way to our–”

“We’re not going to the room yet!”

No, not yet. There’s something they’ve gotta do first and Steve leads them to the deck where they once again have to push through a huge crowd of people to get to the railing. Below them, hundreds, maybe even thousands of people are cheering and waving to see them set sail. Steve isn’t going to miss this. And he can’t let Sam miss it, either, even if Steve’s been dragging him from place to place today and probably did sweat at least a year off his life over that game. 

This is simply incredible, though. Spectacular. The ship is more magnificent than he could have ever imagined. And it’s going to take him home. This is the best day of his life. 

So far, anyway. 

Overcome with the idea of all the endless possibilities that are stretching out like the ocean before him, Steve throws his hand up in the air and starts waving. 

“Goodbye!” he shouts to the crowd below. “So long! Thank you for everything!”

“What’re you _doing_ , Steve?” Sam laughs. “You don’t know anyone down there!”

“Doesn’t matter!” Steve exclaims over the crowd. “This is my farewell to Europe; who _knows_ when I’ll be back! Gotta give it the proper farewell, right?” 

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, Rogers?” Doesn’t stop him from grinning ear-to-ear at his explanation, though. “A total fool.”

“C’mon, Sam, try it! It’ll feel great, I promise!”

Not needing any further convincing than that, Sam joins Steve in waving and shouting his goodbyes to no one and everyone at the same time.

“So long!” he says. “I’ll never forget you! I’ll write to you everyday!” 

Gradually, then suddenly, the ship begins to move. Steve’s cheeks are beginning to strain from all the smiling, but he doesn’t care. His life is about to change and he stays there, leaving one adventure behind to start another until all those people become little dots in the distance. 

Down below on F Deck, Steve and Sam try to make sense of the maze of halls and rooms. People are crammed together as they all try to do the same. Total confusion as people argue over luggage in several languages or wander in confusion in the labyrinth. They pass emigrants studying the signs over the doors and looking up the words in phrasebooks. When they finally find theirs, there’s a clear and obvious race to get there first. Sam wins, but only by a hairsbreadth. 

As to be expected while traveling in steerage, their berth is a modest cubicle, painted enamel white with two metal bunk beds shoved up against either wall and a small sink between them. There’re exposed pipes overhead. Two men are already there–one sitting on the top bunk with his legs dangling off it, the other going through his small suitcase. They both look at Steve and Sam when they enter, sharing a confused glance as Sam tosses his duffle on the top bed of the other bunk. Clearly, these are not the two men they’d been expecting.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Who says _you_ get top bunk?”

“I think I earned this, Stevie boy.” Sam hops up there and plops down on the mattress. “After what you put me through this morning?”

“Did you already forget that if it hadn’t been for me we wouldn’t even _be_ here?” 

“Doesn’t mean you don’t owe me.”

Tossing his own bag into the bottom bunk, Steve snorts and then turns around to their bunkmates. Smile on his face, he shakes both of their hands despite those confused looks still staring back at him. 

“Hey, how ya doin’?” he greets. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers. Nice to meet ya. That’s Sam.” 

Still up on the bed, Sam grins and waves. They do shake Steve’s hand, but it’s a very automatic response. Just doing it because it’s what someone does when presented with a handshake. Once Steve lets go and moves back to their side of the room, the other two begin speaking in German. Steve can’t pretend to understand what they’re discussing, but it must be about their missing companions since he _does_ catch the name Sven being said. 

Hands behind his head, Sam’s got his eyes closed and looks quite relaxed while Steve folds his arms and leans against Sam’s mattress. Just stares at him for a few seconds. When Sam sighs, Steve smiles. 

“You’re not gonna quit that,” Sam mumbles, eyes still closed, “until you get what you whatever it is you want, are you?” 

“Probably not,” Steve teases, poking at his friend’s foot. “No.” 

Sam sighs again, this time dramatic and heavy, and opens his eyes. At first, he just stares at the ceiling. After a few seconds of that, he flicks his gaze to meet Steve’s.

“What do you want?” he asks. “And _maybe_ I’ll think about it.” 

Steve tosses his head back with a groan. “You’re gonna keep punishing me over that damn game, ain’t ya?” 

This earns Steve one of Sam’s flashy grins. Pearls showing. Slightly gap-toothed. An answer in and of itself. Doesn’t seem to matter that Steve’s gamble got them here, Sam’s gonna drag this out for as long as he can. 

That’s okay. As long as it makes him happy and Steve hasn’t been disowned by one of the best friends he’s ever had the privilege of making. 

“So what is it?” Sam asks. “What do you want from me?” 

Wrapping his hand around the metal frame of the bed, Steve hops up and down a few times. The movements make the bed shake and Sam’s jostled about because of it. 

“Come on, come on, come _on_! We can’t just sit here! Let’s go explore!”

“ _Now_?” Sam slaps his hands over his face. “Don’t you ever run out of energy?”

“Not until I’m dead.” Steve now takes to shaking Sam by the shoulder. “Please? I’ll be your best friend!” 

“I better be that already.” 

A new smile curves up on Steve’s mouth. While he’s thought this very thing several times already now, it’s the first Sam’s suggested it as well. Something warm blossoms inside Steve’s heart. 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says. “You got me there. How ‘bout…when I become a world-famous artist, I’ll give you a Steve Rogers original?” 

Sam barks a laugh but those warm eyes of his are sweet and tender. Almost as though telling Steve he believes in him. He’s an artist. Truly. 

“All right, man.” He sits up now and slips off the bed. “I’ll take you up on that. Where to, Rogers?”

Taking hold of Sam’s wrist, Steve once again leads him back up to the Third Class Deck and hurries to get to the one spot Steve just _needs_ to see. In fact, as soon as Steve feels the crisp, salty sea air upon his skin, he breaks into a run again, not letting go of Sam’s wrist when he does. Behind him, Sam groans and complains about being made to run yet _again_. 

But Steve can’t help it. They’re moving at full speed now and he needs to get to the bow of the ship to experience this for himself. There’s nobody else when they get there and without even thinking about it, Steve grabs hold of one of the taut lines just above him and braces each foot on the second rung of the railings where the front of the ship comes together to form a point. The arrow that points the way. 

For a moment, his eyes close and he sucks in a deep breath. It’s dizzying, the beauty of all this. The magnificence of the world never ceases to amaze him. Steve opens his eyes so he can stare out at the landscape in front of them. He grins, completely awed.

“Look at this,” he says. “Isn’t this incredible?”

“Incredible?” Sam chuckles. “I don’t think there’s a word good enough for what this is.” He points out to something on the horizon. “Look at that over there!”

“Where?” Steve holds his hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun. “What’m I lookin’ at?”

“You don’t see that?”

Steve squints to try to find whatever it is Sam’s looking at, but it’s nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see. The water sparkles beneath the sun, making everything around them look as though all the stars in the night sky have been caught by the waters so they can dance and play during the daylight. There’s not even a cloud in the sky. Steve might try to capture this remarkable view only he’d never do justice to such a breathtaking sight. 

Still, he doesn’t see anything but ocean. 

“I don’t see anything! What is it?”

Sam shakes his head and laughs. “It’s the Statue of Liberty! Just…” He pinches his fingers close together. “Very small.” 

Steve laughs and grabs the railing so he can lean forward to get a better look at the water. They’re moving so fast now. It’s almost impossible to tell until looking down to see how the front of the ship sails across the ocean. Up here, Steve feels like he’s flying. 

Something then catches his eyes, leaping out of the water. He gasps and points to the dolphin swimming next to the ship. 

“Look, look!” Steve exclaims. “You see it? Right there?”

Following Steve’s finger, Sam lets out a delighted laugh, just as amazed as Steve is. Then another jumps alongside its friend. And another. They zip through the water, able to keep the same speed as the Titanic as she cuts through the ocean. 

Steve’s never felt so free in all his life. With the wind blowing through his hair and billowing around him. The sun shining brightly overhead. The ocean painting a picture that puts all other art to shame. He can’t help himself. Steve lets go of the rope he’s been holding to throw his arms up in the air as an excited shout bursts from his lungs. 

Nothing can compare to this. 

Steve might as well be king of the world. 

~~~

Bucky rummages through some of the trunks and crates that have been brought to his and Winifred’s suite. It’s massive, of course; just like they’d been promised. Everything about it boasts all the grandeur and splendor that a ship of dreams should be made with. A “millionaires” suite, Bucky believes these are called and are comprised of two bedrooms, a bath, a water closet, a wardrobe room, and a large sitting room. In addition, there is a private fifty-foot promenade deck outside. The luxury is almost overwhelming. A ludicrous notion, really; Bucky’s grown up in the lap of luxury, so really this shouldn’t be any different than what he’s used to. But there’s something different about this. 

Maybe it’s knowing that all the opulence and prosperity he’s afforded now comes with a hefty price tag. A price tag in the form of Alexander Pierce, who’s currently being shown their private promenade deck and barking orders at the staff as if he owns the place when really he’s just borrowing this space for a few days. Bucky tries to ignore him when he comes back into the sitting room, directing where their personal belongings should be placed. 

“Can I help you with something, sir?” 

Bucky looks up to see his maid, Darcy, has stopped unpacking and is now standing beside him. He gestures to the things around him. 

“Maybe,” he says. “I’m looking for the crates with all the paintings I bought. Have you seen it?” 

She holds a finger up to her chin and looks over all the crates. When she spots one in particular, she lifts that finger away and points. 

“Ah.” Darcy maneuvers between the luggage. “I believe these are the ones you want.” 

The top comes off with a little effort – Bucky thinks only after it’s off that he should have offered his assistance – and, sure enough, inside are the paintings he’s recently purchased. Bucky grins as he starts to sift through them. One, in particular, had caught his fancy and he’d like to find that one first.

“Which are you looking for, sir?”

Darcy’s made herself useful again by going through the second crate. A rush of gratitude runs through Bucky’s veins. Not many people would be so willing to help with this. Not at least without being told to first. Darcy had already been told by Winifred to unpack Bucky’s things for him yet she’s still paused with that in order to help Bucky instead. 

“The one with all the faces,” he tells her. “It’s my favorite. And, please, call me Bucky.” 

She smiles. “Will you be wanting all of them out, Bucky?”

Bucky hesitates before answering that. While this is technically _his_ suite, shared with his mother, Alex might not want them hanging on the walls here. Another thought, then, makes him not care. This might be the very last time he can decide for himself how he’d like something to be. Once he’s married, Alex probably won’t let him hang these anywhere. Perhaps he won’t even be allowed to keep them. 

“Yes,” Bucky says if only to get one last taste of freedom. “Lord knows this place could use a little color–ah! Here it is.”

He pulls out the painting he’d been looking for and admires it. He’s drawn into the fascination all over again. The peace within the chaos. The calm before the storm. Like the artist found his harmony in a sea of discordance. Maybe, if Bucky tries hard enough, he, too, can find that harmony he’s gone so long without. 

“Wow.” Darcy looks over Bucky’s shoulder to see the painting. “It is rather interesting.” 

“Thank you.” Bucky smiles at her before turning his eyes back on the painting again. “I thought so, too. There’s just something so fascinating to me.” 

“Good _God_.” Alex’s voice makes any of that harmony fall to pieces. “Not those finger paintings again.” 

Keeping his eyes trained on the painting, Bucky takes it away from the crate to test in various places around the room. See where it’ll look best. Brock has entered the room now, with Alex’s safe. He does insist on carting it around everywhere they go. A constant reminder of his fortune. As if he’d suddenly forget if not for the physical presence of wealth. 

“The difference between Alex’s taste in art and mine is that I have some.” The words taste delicious coming off his tongue. He says them as though in jest when, really, they’re anything but. “They’re fascinating. Like…stepping into a dream.” 

Though Alex doesn’t undignify himself by snorting, Bucky’s sure that’s something he’d do if he wasn't so obsessed with keeping his appearance as a gentleman intact. 

“Nothing more than mud puddles,” he says. “I’ve no idea what you see in such nonsense.” 

That’s probably because he can’t see past the nose on his face, but Bucky doesn’t dare make such a comment. 

Bucky simply adores art. In all its forms. He’s always yearned for the freedom that artists must have. To be able to create something out of nothing. Painting or words or dance. They all bring such beauty to the world. 

As a child, Bucky had been taught to dance. Ballet. His mother thought it would keep him graceful. She’d allowed him to learn to play the piano as well. When he was younger, Bucky played at his parents’ dinner parties and this had been a great source of amusement to their guests. They all seemed to approve of his charm, finding something appealing in the little boy whose fingers tickled ivory keys just for them. He’d also written stories for some time. Short pieces about adventures and love in unlikely places.

That, until recently, remained a secret. While Alex had been courting him, and Bucky, still enamored at the thought of him, shared his stories. Alex flipped through the first few pages of the book he’d been handed only for Bucky to receive an amused smile and then a pat on the head. He was told, “that’s cute,” and after that, Bucky never brought it up again. 

“Above the fireplace, maybe?”

Pulled out of his thoughts by this, Bucky shakes his head, taking a moment to realize that Darcy’s just suggested a place for the painting to go. Funny, Bucky probably would have picked that spot as well. It can be seen from every spot in the room and from each of those spots, Bucky will be able to view it from a different angle. With Darcy’s help, they hang it – and they are right, it looks splendid there, and with the fire’s glow, it may look hauntingly beautiful.

Darcy also steps back to admire it, soft smile on her lips. 

“There’s sense,” she says, “but no logic.” 

Glad there’s another person here who shares the same heart he has. Makes him feel a little less alone. 

“I thought exactly the same thing.” 

“What’s the artist’s name?”

“Um.” Bucky thinks about it. “...Something Picasso?”

Laughter strikes the room. Fast and hard. A bolt of lightning that comes in so unexpectedly it makes everyone jump. A laugh, Bucky thinks, shouldn’t _sound_ so irksome. Bucky used to revel in the thought of amusing him with his wit and charm. But now, Alex’s laugh always sends a chill throughout his body. 

“ _Something_ Picasso.” He sniggers. “He won’t amount to anything. Trust me. Good thing they were cheap. Talk about a _waste_ of money.”

Bucky can hear what Alex doesn’t come out and say. A waste of _his_ money. Bucky should be grateful that he’d been willing to waste the money on him. 

Rather than dwell on such matters, Bucky goes to pick another painting to hang. This time, he takes out the Degas and immediately knows where this one should go. 

“The bedroom,” he says, wanting the soft, sweet calmness of this one in there with him. “Over here.” 

He places it upon the vanity and takes a step back to admire it. There’s a smile on Bucky’s face, one he didn’t even know he still had in him. When he catches it in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself. His hair – though far from messy – is no longer neat and stylish. He’s still clean-shaven but he’s paler than usual. He can see the start of dark circles under his eyes. They might not be noticeable to others, but he sees them. Then again, most people aren’t paying much attention to him these days. 

“It smells so brand new,” Darcy says, “doesn’t it?”

She’s laying fresh towels out for him, smiling. Bucky turns to face her, unsure what she means by that. 

“Excuse me?”

Finding himself a bit warm, Bucky lifts his wrist up to her. Without thinking. He’s just so used to being waited on in such ways that it’s second nature. Darcy is already pulling at the threads to loosen his sleeve when he realizes what he’s done. 

“It’s almost like it’s been built up just for us,” she explains as she works on Bucky’s sleeve, finishing with the first by rolling it up to his elbow and then immediately waiting for the next. Bucky lifts it and she starts. “It’s exciting. Just thinking about crawling between the sheets tonight…I’ll be the _first_.”

Her enthusiasm is simply delightful; it’s impossible not to laugh along with her. Bucky wishes to hold onto this feeling forever. Not to have it chased away by the demons following him everywhere.

“When I crawl between the sheets tonight, I’ll still be the first.”

Alex, inviting himself in, of course, champagne flute held lightly in his hand, smirks at his remark. A remark clearly pointed at Bucky. Not the first time he’s said such a thing. He’s made quite a few implications of consummating their relationship. So far, Bucky’s managed to keep him satisfied with kisses and light touching. Reminding him that they’re not yet married and talks of scandals if anyone ever found out have kept him at bay for anything more than that. 

Time is running out, though, and soon enough, Bucky will be left with no choice. Alex will get his consummation whether Bucky likes it or not. 

The comment must make Darcy uncomfortable. It might be Alex in general, but, to be honest, Bucky doesn’t think so. Alex wears a smile. Cool and easy. The same smile that made Bucky think he could trust him. He’s learned since how fake that smile is. How the warmth of it only hides the ice behind it. 

Alex, jerking his head toward the sitting room, barks to Darcy, “Go find something to do.” 

“Yes, sir.” Darcy dips her head. “If you need anything, Bucky, just let me know.” 

As soon as they’re alone, Alex scoffs. Already, Bucky knows what he’s going to complain about. He cringes, waiting for it. 

“Tell me again,” he says, “what did your parents name you?” 

The question, even knowing it’d be asked, sends ice tumbling down Bucky’s spine. He attempts at keeping the eye contact but has to break it. That unyielding confidence – the idea that he owns the room and everything and every _one_ in it – is too overwhelming. 

“James,” Bucky whispers. “My name is James.” 

“Then why must you insist on making me remind you of that all the time?” 

“Because,” Bucky grumbles. “My name is Bucky, too.” 

“ _No_.” Alex crosses the room and pokes Bucky’s nose. “That’s a _child’s_ name and I am not _marrying_ a child. I’m marrying a grown man whose name is James.”

Bucky bites his lip to keep it from trembling. This is just one more thing he’s losing. He never thought someone could take his identity from him, but, apparently, he was wrong. 

He’s been Bucky for as long as he can remember. No one ever called it a baby’s name until Alex came along. Not his friends. Not his sister. Not either of his parents. In fact, his parents were the ones who gave him the nickname to begin with. They told him it was special. A name just for him and their family. All he knows who to be is Bucky. Bucky is who he’s always been. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else. 

“Just imagine,” Alex goes on, his tone cheerful as though he’s only teasing when he’s really about to belittle Bucky now. “Let me introduce you to my husband, _Bucky_.” He barks an amused laugh. “How horribly humiliating that would be.” 

And there’s nothing worse than losing face in front of his dreadful colleagues. Bucky can already imagine it. Alex and his powerful friends having a good laugh at Bucky’s expense. Over a simple thing as his name. A name he’s no longer permitted to have. 

Things didn’t start this way. Bucky hadn’t always felt so insecure and worthless when Alex was around. In fact, it’d very much been the opposite. Alex was kind and sweet to him. Offered sympathy and condolences about Bucky’s father. He took him on long walks through the park. They went to the ballet together. Alex even brought him to the New York City Library where he listened to Bucky read _Wuthering Heights_ aloud to him. 

Alex listened to his hopes and dreams of becoming an artist. A writer, perhaps. Or even a moving picture star. And he listened without a condescending smile or belittling remark. 

He lavished Bucky in gifts and spoils that, really, Bucky hadn’t thought about rejecting. Not only would that be rude, but he enjoyed the presents. The attention. He thought, then, during their courtship, that if he had to be married to someone, Alex would do just fine. 

Then things began to change. Bucky can’t say for sure _when_. It didn’t happen overnight. But those sweet gestures from Alex that Bucky had thought were from his heart, started coming at a price. An insult hidden as a compliment. Subtle reminders that _Alex_ was the one spending money. Remarks that may’ve been snide comments about his wardrobe choice. Jokes made in public about his hopes and dreams that had been shared in confidence.

Slowly, then suddenly, Alex was different. No one else noticed or, if they did, no one seemed to care. Bucky wondered if maybe he was just imagining things. Making a big deal over nothing. Mother always said he had a flair for dramatics. So when Alex proposed marriage, the idea of saying no was silly–even with the pit in his stomach. 

There are still _moments_ when Bucky catches a glimpse of the man he thought had been courting him, but mostly, he’s a weed who knows how to hide behind rose petals. He’s never been violent with Bucky, but he’s been forceful. Controlling. Bucky knows it’s only a matter of time before things get worse. 

Which is why, when Alex steps up behind him to circle his arms around his body and pulls him against his own, Bucky stiffens and has to fight back a tremble. There’s no affection in the hold, though to any outsider that’s all they’d see. No, this isn’t affection. It’s possession. Bucky is nothing more than an object to him. 

“Have you finished unpacking, dear?” he murmurs right into Bucky’s ear. His lips graze Bucky’s earlobe. 

He has not, actually, but Bucky doesn’t know if it’s wise to say that. Alex might wish for his company and Bucky can’t always give him an excuse not to have it. So he forces a smile and nods. 

“Mhm.”

“That’s good.” Alex, not letting Bucky out of his embrace, looks at the bed. “I suppose you’ll want to rest.”

“That might be nice,” Bucky answers. “I am rather sleepy.” 

Alex nods. Says, “It’s been a long morning,” and untwines his arms, taking Bucky’s hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Someone of your delicate nature shouldn’t be exposed to so much so quickly. Relax for a bit. I want you to be freshened up by supper, James.”

Bucky’s stomach twists. He’s done it again. If anyone heard him speak this way, they’d think nothing of it. But Bucky hears the demand in his voice, the insult, as soft as it is. 

“Yes, Alex.”

Somehow, Bucky manages to smile and forces himself to add a quick kiss to Alex’s cheek. This earns him a pat on the head. 

“I’ll send the woman back in with some tea to help you sleep.”

Fighting back the urge to remind him that the _woman’s_ name is Darcy, Bucky just nods and moves for the bed. 

“Thank you, Alex.” Bucky spins back around as Alex is leaving. “Shut the door. Please.” Alex is giving him a look. “I mean, would you mind shutting the door behind you?”

Alex holds a finger up. A smirk of some sort twitches at the corners of his mouth. The warning is clear, though. Bucky needs to start remembering how to speak to him. Proper and with a lot more respect than that. 

Luckily, other than that look, Alex ignores this slip and does close the door as he leaves. Once he’s gone, Bucky’s breaths stagger and he suppresses a shudder. Afraid his emotions may get the better of him, Bucky sits back on the bed and wraps his arms around his knees. Maybe, if he holds himself tight enough, he won’t come undone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because fashion plays a big part in the movie and I wanted to make Bucky stand out more, I thought I'd give examples of some of his clothes throughout the story. For example, this is what he's wearing on this first day:
> 
> Also for anyone interested in visuals and history ((I've done so much research, I can probably go toe-to-toe with James Cameron lol)) here's some more interesting finds.
> 
> An original ad that could be found for Titanic:
> 
> A picture of the only known remaining First Class Ticket:
> 
> And a page from the original Passenger List:
> 
> Anyhow, there's more where that came from!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and I hope you're enjoying!


	3. April 12th, 1912

_**April 12th, 1912** _

Yesterday afternoon, they’d made their final stop at Queenstown, and now there’s nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see, shining beneath the sun like a blanket of diamonds. The ship glows with the warm creamy light of late afternoon. The Irish Coast is long gone and the day hasn’t seen a cloud since dawn. Everywhere Steve looks feels like a portrait. Everything seems like it’s come from out of a dream. This is as good as stepping into his very own fairytale. The only complaint he has is that he didn’t have any time to buy himself some more Conte crayons. Those and his sketchbook are his most prized possessions. He goes nowhere without them. 

Not that it matters, really. Nothing Steve draws could ever match the beauty he’s found here on the Titanic. Everything is worth drawing but if he wants to keep his supplies until the end of the trip, he needs to draw sparingly. Which is a problem. Because Steve is just _aching_ to draw everything he sees. 

There’re stories everywhere. In the ship people call unsinkable on her maiden voyage–all her features still sparkling and new. In the people on her. All the adults making this long, glorious journey. Where might they be headed? What waits for them on the other side of this endless ocean? In the wonders that can be found within only the eyes of a child. What fairytales do they dream? What enchantments lie before them? 

That’s what Steve desires above all else to do with his drawings–to tell those stories that others might miss. They’re in those moments that he captures. Steve’s learned that if he captures the _right_ moment he just might see into the soul of a person.

Currently, he’s focused on Clint, another Third Class passenger, and his little girl, Lila, who’s watching the ocean beneath them. Lila keeps on pointing at things. Asks questions. Right now, Clint is explaining the propellers to her, telling her that they make little waves in the water when they spin. 

Steve had found himself gravitated toward them before he and Sam even decided on a good place to sit. They have good hands to draw.

It’s in a person’s hands, Steve’s always believed, that he can see so much of who they really are. They hold so many secrets right there on the surface if one only bothered to look. Like Clint for instance. Those are the hands of a man who’s known hard work his entire life. They’re big. Rough. Calloused. And yet, with his daughter, they’re soft and gentle. Protective, even, as they hold Lila. They’re the hands of someone who knows how to use them for brute strength and knows when not to as well. 

Lila, on the other hand, hers are still small. Smooth and clean. They haven’t yet been changed with experience and life. There’s a sweet, soft innocence to them as one holds a tight grip on her father’s coat and the other excitedly points out the things around them. 

Even though his subject keeps moving around, Steve just smiles and continues to draw them. They’re an adorable family, the Bartons. Clint’s wife, Laura, is below deck with their son, Cooper, and pregnant with their third child. She spent the better of last night getting sick into a bucket, but she seems to be faring better today. 

“Do you make any money with your drawings?” 

Steve swings his focus from Clint and Lila to the source of the question. Hair cascading down to her shoulders in soft, ruby curls, the wind out here adds a rosy tinge to her ivory skin. Steve and Sam met Natalia last night after supper. The soup and roasted pork served had been heartier than anything he and Sam would’ve eaten if they were still in London. 

When they came upon Natalia, she’d been in the middle of an arm-wrestling match with Clint. Cigarette held nimbly between her lips, she showed no signs of struggling. That stoic expression remained on her face the entire time and neither of them budged, ending their match in a draw. They bought each other a pint after that and asked Steve and Sam to join them. 

While Clint and his family were seeking a new life in America from the farm they had in Ireland, Natalia was escaping the war in her homeland. 

Russia, as Steve understood, had been in a bad way for some years now. By the way Natalia carried herself, Steve had a feeling she wore a series of scars because of it. If not across her body then along her soul, and if there’s one thing Steve knew above all else, it was the scars across a soul that throb more painfully and so much longer than the ones on a body ever could. 

Today, she’s mostly had Sam’s attention. Even now, as they sit up on the Third Class deck soaking in the afternoon sun. Until she asked her question. 

“From time to time,” he answers. “When I get lucky.” 

“When I get lucky,” Sam mocks with a scoff. “Don’t let that false modesty fool you.” He leans closer to Steve, offering him the cigarette he’s just rolled. “He’s kept our bellies from growling on more than one occasion.”

Steve smirks and accepts the cigarette. Pulls the first drag in with a chuckle and then playfully lands a kick to Sam’s ankle. 

“I can’t tell if that was a compliment or not.”

Laughing, Sam retaliates with a jab to Steve’s arm. “Take it as you will, man.”

“You two,” Natalia says to them, Russian accent thick and heavy, “are worse than children.” 

She’s lucky to have already learned English. Many of the passengers below have had difficulties navigating the twists and turns of the lower decks as they tried to find their rooms and the Steerage dining hall. To plenty of people in the New World, however, Natalia’s English won’t matter. The accent of her native tongue will be all they hear.

To them, foreigners like Natalia and the Bartons are, as Steve and his mother were before them, not welcome. The reasons vary from person to person, of course, but Steve could remember his mother looking for work and not even being able to apply for a job she was qualified for because she was from Ireland. Irish Need Not Apply still splashed across signs at home. Steve’s only lucky he’d come to America young enough that his accent melted away into the Brooklyn sounds he knows now. Which hardly means he doesn’t run into the occasional asshole. He’s been called a mick more than once in his life. 

“Hey, wait.” Sam holds his palms out to her. “Don’t lump me in with the likes of this one. He’s all sorts of trouble. He just drags me along for the ride.” 

“And that got you here!” Steve exclaims. “Don’t forget that!” 

Sam gives him that winning smile of his and claps him on the shoulder. He gives him the sort of jostle shared between close comrades and Steve pats the hand touching him. He’s had it worse than all of them, of course. People take one look at Sam and don’t see that big heart or his hard-working nature or his smarts. No, they simply see the color of his skin and that’s all they need to know. 

Maybe if they all stick together they can make something of a difference in a world that should celebrate differences; not condemn them. 

“It _is_ a nice ship,” Sam chuckles. “Just look at it.” 

“Of course it’s a nice ship,” Clint replies, helping Lila down from where she’d been watching the waves crash against the side. “It’s an Irish ship.” 

“Irish?” Sam questions. “It’s English, no?” 

Clint, who’s just lit a cigarette of his own, shakes his head. “No, fifteen thousand Irishmen built this ship.”

“Really?”

“Built in Belfast. They started it in 1909. Took ‘em two years to finish the hull.” He knocks his fist against the side. “Solid as a rock.” He holds his hands up. “Built by big strong hands.” 

“Did you work on it?” Steve asks.

“Not me, no. We were busy on the farm.”

Now that his subjects have moved, Steve looks around for something new to draw. As much as he hates leaving a piece unfinished, he’d hate it even more if he had to stop completely. Steve’s eyes fall on Sam and their new friend. He hasn’t missed how much of Sam’s attention Natalia’s gained. Sam is inclined a bit toward her as she leans back on her elbows. When the wind blows, and Natalia’s hair glows like sunlight pouring through jewels, Steve gets himself a clean sheet of paper to start drawing her and Sam together. 

He knows enough of Sam that there’s no need to keep looking at him for reference. Steve’s practically memorized the lines of his smile. The curves of his face. Those eyes so full of life. They all mean so much to Steve now. He barely knows how to live without them. 

It’s Natalia – who only rolls her eyes and then doesn’t move much when she realizes Steve is drawing them – that Steve keeps stealing glimpses of. There’s something delicate beneath her hard exterior. Sweetness behind the roughness. 

In the moment, Steve hopes to capture all of that and what the two of them could bring to the world together. 

And it’s beautiful.

“I was makin’ it as a barber back in Harlem,” Sam’s telling her. “That’s in New York. Pop was a Pastor. Always wanted to see the world so when he died, I packed it up and–”

His words taper off there, eyes finding something that makes him scowl. The rest of them follow his gaze. It doesn’t take them more than a few seconds to see what’s made him glare like that.

Coming down the metal steps from the First Class deck is a well-dressed man. With him are three leashed dogs–one airedale terrier and two Pomeranians. The man walks with his arms slightly raised. Like he’s worried he might catch sick if he comes too close to anyone down there. Doesn’t matter that this man works as a servant to his employers, to him, they’re worth just a little more than the rats below deck. 

Sam snorts, “Would ya look at this.” 

“Aye, that’s typical,” Clint grumbles. “Take the First Class dogs down here for their shite.”

Steve shrugs. He’s used to this and no longer lets it bother him. If he did, he’d be angry ninety percent of the time. All Steve can do is fight injustice by doing the right thing whenever he can. 

“Ah,” he says. “It just lets us know where we rank in the scheme of things.”

Natalia rolls her eyes. “As if we could forget.” 

Cigarette between his lips, Steve chuckles and would go back to his drawing if something else didn’t catch his attention first. 

A young man has just appeared on the First Class deck. Steve isn’t sure why he’s captured his attention exactly, but he has. 

And he’s beautiful. 

Even from this distance. The way the late afternoon sun sings through his chestnut hair. How it makes his soft, pale gold skin glow. 

He’s resting his wrists over the railing, his fingers all laced together. At first, he doesn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular, just watching things unfold before him. Possibly the children playing down here on the Third Class deck. Or just what he can see of the ocean from where he stands. Which may be a fair amount given how much higher he is than Steve and his friends. The fabric sticking out of his breast pocket – a piece of shiny golden cloth – keeps flapping in the wind. Until he huffs and rips it out of his pocket. He looks at the frilly absurd thing, then tosses it over the rail. It sails far down to the water and is carried away, astern. A spot of yellow in the vast ocean. 

Steve is…well, riveted by him. He looks like a figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated. Lonely. 

Then, just for once instant, his eyes flick down and Steve would swear, land right on him and then away again. For that one heartbeat, though, Steve’s soul comes to life. He’s been caught staring, but he doesn’t have it in him to worry about it. He leans forward, resting his arms over his knees and unable to tear his eyes away. Somebody even – Sam, he thinks – snaps his fingers at him, trying to get his attention. 

“ _Oi_ , forget about it, _priyatel,_ ” Natalia teases. “It never will happen.” 

“Aye,” Clint agrees. “You’ll sooner have angels fly out your arse than get near the likes of ‘im.” 

Steve smiles but still watches. Even when those eyes move back to him again. Their gaze meets across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds. This time, he lifts his chin when he glances away. Funny though, after another moment, he moves away from the railing and opens the gate that separates the two decks. He keeps his eyes focused on whatever’s caught his attention – or maybe just firmly away from Steve, Steve can’t tell which. He walks past them. Briskly. Eyes trained straight ahead. 

“Never would’ve guessed that,” Sam says. “One of them actually lowering themselves to our standards.” 

Normally, Steve would agree with such a statement. Today, he can’t pry his eyes away from where their First Class visitor has ended up. A good distance from them, but not so far away that Steve doesn’t have a good view of him. Or of his hands. Which have taken a good grip on the railing. Almost tight, like he’s afraid if he lets go something bad might happen. Steve can’t help wondering what kind of story they might tell if he got a better look at them. After a moment, he releases that tight hold on the railing and reaches into his pocket. From it, he retrieves a silver cigarette case. Cigarette held lightly between his lips, he has a little trouble lighting it because of all the wind, but once he does, he inhales with an almost spiteful looking breath.

“ _Ey_!” Natalia calls for Steve’s attention. “Have you finished your drawing yet?”

Steve glances down at his paper and then back up at them. He brings his pencil back down to finish what he started. It won’t take much longer. Using the edge of his thumb, he smudges the lines he’s just drawn to add some shading around Sam’s forehead. Really captures the shadows the brim of his flat cap creates. 

“I think…” Steve says. “I’m just about done.” 

Or he would be if someone didn’t abruptly shove by him, bumping into his knees and nearly knocking his sketchbook right off his lap. By some miracle, Steve doesn’t destroy the entire image with a black streak across the page.

Across from him, Natalia sits up while Sam’s gaze has gone in the direction of the man who bumped into Steve. Clint scoffs. Mumbles something under his breath that Steve doesn’t quite catch. Steve might say something too if he thought it was worth the air in his lungs. But the person who knocked past him is another First Class passenger.

“Not enough they already think they own half the ship,” Sam grumbles. “They gotta come down here and take over, too.” 

“Half is being modest, Sam,” Steve replies. 

The man who’s just come down here is significantly older than the other. Probably significantly older than Steve as well. And he’s headed straight for him. When he reaches him, he grabs him by the arm. The man’s approach clearly startles him. If his arm hadn’t been grabbed, Steve suspects he may’ve staggered back. The grab isn’t what Steve would call violent but it is forceful. Possessive. Makes every last one of Steve’s muscles ready to pounce into action. The hand on his shoulder, however, keeps him still. 

“Leave it alone, Steve,” Sam tells him. “Just let it go.” 

“But–”

“I know, I _know_.” Sam does; he really does. He hates seeing people pushed around just as much as Steve does. “But you can’t go meddling in their affairs.”

Eyes drifting from Sam to where the two First Class passengers are, Steve clenches his jaw. From what he can tell, the man is scolding the younger one. A firm reprimand while the young man just stands there and listens with his jaw tense and his knuckles white like he just can’t say anything in response. 

Sam’s right, though. No matter how badly Steve wants to intervene – and he’s not even certain intervening is necessary – it’ll only lead to more trouble. For not only Steve but quite possibly the person he’s trying to help. It’s happened before. Steve or Sam will step in only to be yelled at by the person they thought needed help. 

Sometimes, even when the angry person has calmed down it’d be clear they hadn’t stopped anything. They merely delayed it for a later time. 

It’d be so easy right now to just get up and go over there. Pull the guy away and demand he not speak to someone that way. But it won’t do any good and probably only cause more trouble for Sam. Steve, too, but Steve doesn’t care about that so much. 

Not that it really matters anyway. Seconds later, the man lets go of the boy’s arm and slips his hand under his chin. Steve doesn’t have a good enough view to the reaction to this shift in positions, but he can tell that the young man apologizes to his companion. When he does this, he takes a step back like he’s been aching to do that since he realized he was no longer alone. They stand there looking at one another for another moment before the older man gestures for the younger to head back to the First Deck. He turns and does as he’s told.

And just like that, they’re gone.

~~~

The knock on the door wakes him. Behind it, a soft voice says his name. Not James. Bucky. For one instant, a breath that can’t even be measured as time, everything is peaceful. Then that moment ends and Bucky’s surrounded by his new reality. A place where his father has died. A place where he’s engaged to Alexander Pierce. A place where he’s no longer permitted to be Bucky. Pressure weighs down on his chest. Makes it difficult to breathe. 

There’s another knock. Another call of his name–Bucky. It takes one more second to realize that it’s Darcy at the door and, bless her, is still calling him Bucky, as requested. 

“Yes, Darcy,” he answers. “Come in.” 

Darcy opens the door and when she steps into the room, she looks a bit taken aback at what she sees. Bucky’s not sure what’s caused such a reaction. 

“Beg pardon, sir,” she says. “I didn’t realize you’d still be in bed at this hour.” 

“This hour? What time is it?”

“Almost half-past ten,” she replies. “Mr. Pierce sent me to fetch you for breakfast.” 

Heart speeding up at this, Bucky just manages to keep himself from rushing out of the bed. That would most likely result in tripping over his own two feet and making a fool out of himself. But it’s so late. So, so late. For all the hours he slept, however, he hardly feels well-rested. 

He can’t really believe that it’s so late already. Even more surprising is the fact that neither his mother nor Alex came to make him get out of bed earlier. They’ve never allowed him to sleep in before. 

“Darcy,” Bucky says. “Would you mind laying out some clothes for me while I wash up, please?”

“Of course.”

As she heads for the wardrobe, Bucky peels back the blanket and gets out of bed. The carpet is warm beneath his feet. He curls his toes over it and wonders if there’s carpet like this at Alex’s manor. 

Last night, Alex had welcomed himself into Bucky’s room as he was dressing for bed. Eyed him from the door with that possessive look all over his face. Bucky hadn’t buttoned his silk nightshirt yet but was otherwise fully dressed. Still, Alex’s suggestive gaze made him feel as though he’d been standing in the room completely naked. The room shook with vulnerability when Alex crossed it as if reacting to the sudden predatory sensation that ran through it. 

“You are very beautiful, James,” Alex said just before reaching him. “Did you know that?” 

There wasn’t a right answer to that question. If he said yes, Alex would tell him he needed to be more modest. If he said no, Alex would tell him he needed a stiff upper lip. Either way, Bucky would lose. So Bucky said the only thing he thought might be acceptable.

“Thank you.” 

That earned him an approving smile. If anything, at least Bucky was learning how to please Alex. 

A chill, then, washed over his whole body when both of Alex’s hands reached for him. Bucky held his breath. Assumed that Alex meant to place his hand on his bare chest. Bucky didn’t want the touch. Not at all. But he couldn’t say no forever and he was running out of time. 

Only that wasn’t what Alex wanted. Instead of touching him, he fixed the ends of and started buttoning Bucky’s shirt for him. Bucky stood as still as he could. Any time Alex’s fingers touched his skin – no matter how brief or light – Bucky suppressed a shudder. 

“You know, darling,” Alex said just as he reached the last button. “People are going to start to wonder if you keep holding up by yourself in your room.” 

That was a hint – a _warning_ , even – about Bucky staying in his room for most of the past two afternoons. After that tea and attempted rest just a little while after boarding, Bucky hadn’t stepped one foot out the door until supper was served the first day. Yesterday, Bucky had done anything he could to keep to himself, disappearing whenever no one was actively paying attention to him. 

Sometimes, there was no avoiding it which was why Bucky accompanied Alex to partake in a Turkish bath with him. Bucky released a heavy sigh of relief when they got there and other men were there for the same thing. Though they didn’t undress fully, Bucky didn’t want to give Alex any reason for his eyes to linger on his body. 

He did manage to slip away when Alex suggested a game of squash with some of the other gentlemen with them. Alex had taken him once to play at his country club and proceeded to make Bucky look like an utter fool while Bucky attempted to learn how to play. By the end, Alex pinched his cheek, called him adorable, and told him he should probably just leave such athletic activities to the _real_ men. Bucky wasn’t going to suffer that humiliation again.

He’d spent the stolen time reading. One way he could escape from this world and into another was by letting himself be consumed by the books he reads, so Bucky did it as often as he could. Yesterday afternoon, he’d chosen _Robin Hood_ and lost himself in Sherwood Forest and stealing from the rich to give to the poor. What he didn’t expect was to have Alex barge in while he read. 

Bucky tried to hide the book, but he’d been caught the second the door opened. He froze when Alex approached. Disappointment in each step. When he reached the settee Bucky sat on, he simply plucked the book off of Bucky’s lap. Closed it with one hand and then scoffed when he looked at the title.

“This is the reason you’ve locked yourself away and wasted the rest of the afternoon?” he asked. “On this drivel.” 

“It’s not drivel,” Bucky said between his teeth. “I enjoy it.” 

“Well,” Alex replied. “That must mean you enjoy drivel. Is this true? Do you enjoy drivel, James?”

The glare on Bucky’s face had been unavoidable. Alex, who always chose his words so carefully and put them in ways that made Bucky doubt himself, had done it again. No answer would benefit Bucky. Saying yes meant Bucky’s tastes were poor and unrespectable. Saying no only proved Alex right. So he just continued to stare, surprising even himself with this random act of defiance. 

This did nothing to Alex’s composure. Perfectly maintained with just a hint of a smirk on his face. He placed his hand gently over Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I don’t appreciate the look you’re giving me, darling.” That smirk became a bit more defined. “I believe I’ve been more than patient with you and your sulking.” The hand on Bucky’s shoulder began to tighten. “I think it’s time for you to start showing your gratitude.”

“You’re right,” Bucky whispered as the squeezing began bordering between discomfort and pain. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

Alex hadn’t released his grip right away. In fact, he tightened a little more and then removed his hand. Standing up straight and regal, he fixed the sleeve of his shirt so that it didn’t ride up and then gave Bucky’s cheek two taps. Not hard, but not light either. 

“I don’t know why you keep testing me like this, James,” he said, calmly. “I will take care of you if only you’d let me.” 

Not answering, simply because he wasn’t entirely sure if he could trust his mouth not to say words that would make this worse, Bucky nodded. 

“Good. Then we understand each other.” Alex tossed Bucky’s book onto the little table. “I told you to be presentable by supper. I suggest you start readying yourself.” 

“Okay.”

Alex gave him another one of his smirks before turning and leaving the room. The room sang with tension even after he was gone. After a few minutes, Bucky finally released the tension in his shoulders. He exhaled. Scrubbed his hands over his face. 

As much as Bucky hated to admit it, Alex terrified him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on why. Alex had never lashed out at him in any sort of emotional outburst. He was always so controlled. So poised. 

Maybe that was what made him so terrifying. No, he’d never laid a hand on Bucky but that could – _would_ – change at a moment’s notice. Soon, Bucky would be living behind closed doors with Alex. There’d be no more people to act in front of. Eventually, Bucky would say or do something that pushed too far.

Bucky touches his cheek. 

He can feel the sting of that first slap already. 

Sighing, Bucky goes into the washroom to make himself presentable. After freshening up and brushing his hair, he heads back to the bedroom where Darcy’s picked out a suit for him. He smiles at it laying there across his bed. Bucky likes this particular suit. Olive-green jacket and vest. It simple but sophisticated. Darcy’s chosen a light green tie to go with it. Golden pocket square to compliment it. The best part about this vest, though, is the fact that Bucky can put his pocket watch that he got from his father when he turned sixteen in the front pocket and link the chain to the other side so that it’s showing. 

Darcy assists Bucky with dressing. He briefly considers doing it by himself but it will be faster with her help. Probably best not to stray from his normal role of being served and fussed over anyway. Alex will insist on it. He’ll say that’s why he pays for servants in the first place. 

Once he’s decent, Bucky thanks Darcy for her help and tries to make it look as though he’s not rushing to get to the dining hall before his lateness is far beyond acceptable. He’s nearly there when he happens across a friendly face.

“Good morning, James.”

Even though he really doesn’t have the time to stop, he slows down to at least be polite and say hello. 

“Hello, Peggy,” he replies. “How was your first night?”

Margaret Carter boarded yesterday afternoon at Cherbourg with her daughter, Sharon. She insists that everyone call her Peggy. They had been traveling as a family through Europe, along with her husband Gabe, until he set sail for home a few weeks ago. This isn’t the first time Bucky’s been in her company. Not unusual given how selective their crowds are. The only way to get a ticket to be apart of them is to pay and the price is not exactly cheap.

Peggy’s recently been admitted to the club because her husband struck gold somewhere out west. But Bucky genuinely enjoys Peggy’s personality. She charges at life head-on, unafraid of any challenge she might run across. She speaks her mind. Stands her ground and definitely doesn’t let anyone tell her she can’t do something or shouldn’t behave in certain ways because she’s a lady. When Bucky first noticed her aboard the ship, she’d been carrying her own luggage, telling the steward trailing behind her that she wasn’t going to stand around waiting for him all day. Bucky smiled.

Winifred and Alex refer to her as _new money_ , so of course, neither of them want Bucky associating with her lest he pick up her habits. For them, she’s much too progressive. Keeping her own name instead of changing it to her husband’s, for instance. She does without asking and is completely unapologetic about it. Peggy is in control of her own life, her own destiny. None of this is behavior that Alex and Winifred care for Bucky to be exposed to. 

New money or not, Peggy’s the sort of person that Bucky wishes to spend more time with. She listens when he speaks and doesn’t pick apart every little thing he says. It must come from having not been born into her wealth. She knows to be grateful for it because she’s lived without it. Money can do wicked things to good people. It can turn a golden heart to ice. This desperate need to hold onto it, to have it by any means necessary, can be downright frightening. 

Bucky didn’t know any of this before his father passed away. It haunts him now, this new knowledge. 

“It was delightful,” she answers. “Headed to breakfast?”

“I am,” Bucky says. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

“Of course. Maybe I’ll catch you at lunch.”

“It’d be a pleasure, Peggy.” 

“Say goodbye, Sharon.”

Sharon, who can’t be any more than five or six, smiles shyly and wiggles her fingers instead of giving a verbal farewell. Smiling, Bucky waves in turn and picks up the pace a little. If he actually keeps his mother and Alex waiting there will be consequences. 

When he reaches the Dining Saloon, the two men stationed there open the double doors for him. Bucky makes his way down the grand staircase being greeted by a few people along the way. His shoes make a soft sound when the reach the shiny, marble floor. Once there, Bucky scans the room and spots the table where his mother is seated. 

A hand touches his elbow before he takes a step in that direction. Light, but attention-grabbing. Bucky turns expecting to find another passenger that he hadn’t the chance to greet last night. What he finds, instead, is Alex so close to him when Bucky’s so wildly unprepared that it makes him take a step back. 

“Now, what are people going to think,” he says after clicking his tongue against his teeth and shaking his head, “if they see my fiancé react like that to me?” 

Maintaining that small but meaningful distance between them, Bucky fixes a cool smile on his face. He isn’t so helpless that he can’t at least muster up a false expression and a decent lie. 

“There are so many people aboard this ship, Alex,” he says. “How should I have known it was you when you are the one sneaking up behind me?”

A tug at one side of Alex’s mouth turns it into an easy, crooked grin. His hand moves from Bucky’s elbow to his left hand, cupping under his fingers and lifting them to admire the ring that sits upon his ring finger. It’s weighed his finger down ever since Alex slid it on with cool and steady hands. Pure white gold. Two-carat sapphire – princess cut, Bucky’s told – surrounded by thirty-two round, pronged-set diamonds. Alex’s thumb brushes over it. 

“Who else would have reason to touch you than me?” 

“No one,” Bucky answers. “I suppose.” Before he lets that last part fully register, Bucky lifts his arm. “Would you escort me to breakfast, Alex?” 

Sometimes, when Bucky presents himself as small and vulnerable, someone in need of an escort, Alex reverts back into that sweet, doting gentleman who first courted him. Just as he does now when he loops his arm with Bucky’s to walk him to the table. 

“Oh, there you are,” Winifred says as they approach. “I was wondering when you’d join us.” 

This morning, _us_ happens to include actual royalty, which must have Winifred in high heaven. Sitting across from her is the prince and princess of Wakanda, a small but highly prosperous nation of Africa. Bucky knows that Prince T’Challa and Princess Shuri are traveling with their parents, King T’Chaka and Queen Ramonda, but they’re currently elsewhere. 

“Good morning,” Alex greets. “Forgive our tardiness.” He pats Bucky’s hand, still resting gently over his arm. “Someone had a little trouble getting up this morning.” 

“Your Highnesses,” Winifred says as Bucky sits in the seat Alex has pulled out for him. “May I introduce you to Alexander Pierce.” Bucky tries not to react at being introduced behind Alex. “Affianced to my son here, James.” 

They have met, actually, last night at supper, though, they’d been seated separately. Today, Bucky enjoys very much listening to them speak of their country. Their customs. Their traditions. 

From what Bucky’s come to learn, T’Challa’s been accompanying his father on diplomatic trips across the world as he prepares for the mantel of king. It turns out Shuri is something of an engineer. She enjoys building and inventing, and is encouraged to expand her young mind.

“My brother believes,” Shuri says during their meal, “that if something works fine then it has no reason to be improved.” 

He says, with a smile, something back to her in their native tongue of Xhosa and nudges her with his elbow. To the rest of the table, he says, “And my sister believes she’s the only genius in the world.”

“Not the world,” she counters. “Just Wakanda.”

If the way T’Challa smiles and laughs with her is any indication, they value familiarity rather than being preoccupied with formalities. 

Bucky listens, fascinated, as Shuri talks about the color photography she works with and the moving pictures with sound. She’s even invented, with resources found only in their country, communication devices.

“I would love to hear more about your inventions, Princess Shuri,” Bucky says. “Perhaps, if you wouldn’t be opposed, I could use them as inspiration for–”

“Oh, please,” Alex interrupts, “not this again. What would you use it for, James? One of your silly, little stories? Maybe you’ll write a song, hm? Or paint whatever forms in that overactive imagination of yours.” Chuckling, Alex pats Bucky’s head and apologizes on his behalf. “Please, excuse him, Your Highnesses, he sometimes speaks before thinking.”

Cheeks burning, Bucky clamps his jaw tight and ducks his eyes down just after the prince and princess exchanged a curious glance with one another. The conversation moves along with Winifred’s prompting.

From there, every time Bucky opens his mouth to ask Princess Shuri something or to comment on what Prince T’Challa says, Alex’s hand squeezes across his thigh. That keeps anything Bucky would like to say bottled up inside of him. 

Being at Alex’s side is vastly different than being on his mother’s arm when she presented him as eligible for marriage. People knew what that meant – not only a young _man_ being presented but being presented by his mother. The young man’s family was interested in only male suitors. This was not something Bucky’s mother would have tolerated if not for the name and full pockets that came with it. As far as she was concerned, she needn’t worry about the way Bucky’s eyes lingered upon a man’s face or his affinity for nature and art and things society deemed as delicate and feminine as long as he danced and made conversation with pretty ladies as well.

Under most circumstances, the upper class that Bucky grew within turned a blind eye to what a man did with another man – or what women did with women for that matter – in secret as long as it remained a secret. Then there’s the acceptable reason for a young man to be presented in a coming-out ceremony. The _only_ reason: when the promise of wealth is attached to the arrangement. 

Bucky’s presentation ball had been the highlight of the season. Winifred had seen to that. At only three months past George Barnes’ death, she invited everyone that mattered. All the important socialites. The aristocrats. Anyone with a deep enough wallet and high enough rank that it would ensure their future. 

It didn’t even matter if their inclinations matched with Bucky’s. The emotions of the relationship didn’t matter. What mattered to all potential suitors was not only gaining more influence but gaining that in a meek and mild husband. Someone who would carry out his duties in a well-mannered, respectful way. Because a man with Bucky’s tastes would only be acceptable for suitors as a meek and mild, well-mannered and respectful young man. Demeanor meant everything. 

There had been a few potential suitors before Alex. They called on Winifred to ask for permission to speak with Bucky. None of them held Bucky’s interest or caught his eye, and his mother had been understanding enough to at least let Bucky choose a man suitable to his tastes. 

Then came Alex, and Alex had been so wonderfully different. 

Bucky can admit that, at least in the beginning, he’d been completely smitten with the man. None of the others had ever shown actual _interest_ in Bucky. They spoke. He listened. They did something. He’d been allowed to come along. Alex wanted to hear what _he_ had to say. He asked Bucky what he enjoyed. He listened to the things he’d like to do. 

Until he didn’t. 

After breakfast, Bucky attempts to get himself out from under Alex and his mother’s scrutiny by excusing himself. 

Before he can get away, though, Alex takes hold of his wrist to keep him from even standing. 

“Come now, darling,” he says. “You spent all day yesterday in your room. Don’t you think you should grace us with your company today?”

Beneath the table, Bucky’s hands curl into fists. So tight that they shake. Anger might flash upon his face, but it’s brief and he’s able to maintain a calm expression on the outside. 

“Of course, Alex,” he answers. “What would you like to do?” 

Alex’s choice of entertainment for the rest of the afternoon is disappearing with Bucky into the drawing of his suite. With them, are Arnim Zola, a Swiss doctor, and Johann Schmidt an officer in the German army. Brock, too, of course, but then, he follows Alex around nearly everywhere. Above them is a cloud of cigar smoke. Thick and potent and more than once has Bucky pinched his nose closed. 

The three men talk about politics–their conservative views of the world. None of them are all that compassionate for anyone who doesn’t fit the status quo. They’re useless and unwanted, is their collective opinion. Every now and then, one of them will address Bucky with the obvious assumption that he simply agrees with them. 

No one talks to Bucky anymore. No one listens to what he had to say or what he believes in the world. They don’t really care. Everyone simply talks at him, expecting one answer even when Bucky wishes to give them another. 

By the time lunch is ready to be served, Bucky has almost nodded off several times amidst the endless boring conversations. At least lunch in the Palm Court Restaurant, a beautiful sunny spot enclosed by high arched windows, proves to be a little more entertaining. Not only is Peggy Carter seated at the table, so is Howard Stark, the brilliant mind behind the Titanic. Seated at the head of the table, tall and pompous, is Managing Director of White Star Line, Aldrich Killian. 

“She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history,” Mr. Killian is saying, “and our master shipbuilder, Mr. Stark here, designed her from the keel plates up.”

Mr. Stark smiles and wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin. “Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Killian’s. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is…” He taps the table with his hand. “...willed into solid reality. I must say, it is my proudest accomplishment.”

Bucky smiles at this. Maybe it was Mr. Killian’s idea, but Mr. Stark is the one who designed the ship. He imagined all of this together, piece by piece. Bucky would give anything to pick his brain. Even maybe sneak a peek at that notebook he has with him.

“I’ve always wondered,” he says before thinking better of it, “when you have an idea, Mr. Stark, such as the one you had for Titanic, how does it feel?”

Just like that, the table falls silent. From just a simple question. Next to him, Bucky can hear Winifred stifle an annoyed sound. On his other side, Alex sighs. 

“James,” Alex says, harsh and scolding, and then to the rest of the table, “Don’t pay him any mind, please. He’s good-hearted but, well.” He holds his hand up and tilts it back and forth. “Still a bit naive, I’m afraid.” 

Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, Bucky’s eyes drop to the table. His lips bunch and turn down into a grimace. He doesn’t know why he’s even bothered. No one cares for his opinions anymore. Not if they don’t align with everyone else’s. 

Only Mr. Stark surprises him and says, “Not at all, Mr. Pierce. Curiosity is not akin to naivety. Please, James, what exactly do you mean?”

“I just meant–” Bucky clears his throat, searching for the confidence that’s alluded him for too long. “I know you’ve said that Mr. Killian is the one who envisioned such a ship, but it’s _you_ who actually designed it. So, I just wondered if, when you imagined something of this grand scale, did it come to you in a complete picture or was it more of a puzzle?”

“You mean piece by piece,” Mr. Stark assumes with a smile, seemingly pleased with Bucky’s analogy. “I would have to say both, actually. You see, I pictured her fully and complete when she first came to my mind, but then that picture scattered to pieces as I thought of ways to put her together.”

Bucky, returning the smile, adds, “It’s a very remarkable process, isn’t it? Seeing something in your mind and then making it a reality. Simply wonderful.”

“Are you interested in becoming an engineer, James?” Mr. Stark asks. “Or a creator of some sort? An artist maybe.”

“Me?” Bucky points to himself. “Oh, no. No, I could never.” He doesn’t know if that’s him or Alex saying those words anymore. He _does_ know that it really doesn’t matter. Even if he still has the desire to attend college, that will never happen. Not now. “I just find creation simply fascination. It’s like a work of art.”

Mr. Stark chuckles. “Well, I’m not so sure I’d go as far as calling this a work of art, but I will accept the compliment that she’s remarkable.”

“Y’know, I have a question,” Peggy then says. “Why're ships always bein' called "she"? Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?” They all chuckle at the comment, but Bucky can see the disapproving look in his mother’s eyes. “Just another example of the men settin' the rules their way.”

A waiter has just come over to begin taking the table’s orders. While he does, Bucky reaches into the inside pocket of his cutaway coat to pull out his silver cigarette case. Cigarette between his lips, he flips open his bronzed lighter and lights it. It tastes good. Smooth as he inhales. Of course, his moment of peace can only last so long.

“You know I don’t like that, James,” Winifred says to him, voice scolding and firm. 

Rather than answering that with words, because why shouldn’t he be allowed to enjoy his own petty indulgences, Bucky inhales again and exhales the smoke right in her direction. Not his finest act of maturity, but after the morning he’s just had, he doesn’t have it in him to care. Winifred coughs and fans the smoke away from her. Bucky has every intention of continuing to enjoy his smoke, but when he brings it back to his lips, Alex plucks it away and snubs it out.

“He knows,” he says, cooly. 

Stomach tightening, Bucky’s eyes land on the table. Tears burn behind his eyes. This is what it’s going to be like for the rest of his life. Everything he does, everything he doesn’t do, everything he _wants_ to do–everything will be dictated by someone else. Gaze lifting, Bucky catches eyes with Peggy. Sympathy crosses her face and Bucky tries to smile in appreciation.

When the waiter steps to Alex’s side to ask what he’d like for lunch, Alex once again takes a little more from Bucky.

“We’ll both have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce.” Bucky’s eyes close. Of course, he wouldn’t even be allowed the dignity of ordering for himself. “You like lamb, don’t you, sweet pea?”

No, actually, he doesn’t, and he’d been eyeing the beef meal that had been offered. He wonders if he’d get away with telling Alex that he could have both those plates of lamb–one for each of his faces. That’s a fleeting thought, though. Of course, it is. There’s nothing he can do about it now so he simply opens his eyes, forces the best smile he can conjure, and nods. 

“Are you gonna cut his meat for ‘im too, Alex?” Peggy asks, much to Bucky’s surprise. Clearly to Alex’s and Winifred’s as well. Their faces alone are almost worth having to eat lamb–almost. Bucky grins. Before anyone can respond to Peggy’s questions, she asks another. “Whose idea was it to call the ship Titanic. Was it yours, Aldrich?”

Smiling, very obviously proud of this, Mr. Killian nods. “Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury…and safety–”

“Have you heard of Dr. Freud, Mr. Killian?” Bucky interrupts, the words just spilling from his mouth. “His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

Across the table, Mr. Stark nearly chokes on the piece of breadstick he’s just put into his mouth, suppressing a laugh. Peggy covers her smile with the back of her hand, however, and gives Bucky an impressed sort of expression. Not everyone finds the same degree of humor in Bucky’s statement. From one side of him, Winifred is staring at him as though he’s done something positively ghastly. On the other, Alex has placed a hand on his thigh. Another warning. 

“Good _God_ , James,” Winifred says. “What has gotten _into_ you?”

“I can’t imagine,” Bucky grumbles. 

“He’s a pistol, Alex,” Peggy snickers. “I hope you can handle ‘im.”

“Yes, well.” Hand still on Bucky’s thigh, Alex sounds tense but feigns unconcern. He even squeezes just hard enough to hurt. “I may have to start minding what he _reads_ from now on.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Winifred says, mortified by his comment. “He hasn’t been himself lately.” 

Scoffing, Bucky flings his napkin onto the table and stands, just managing to pull away from Alex’s hard grip. 

“S’cuse me,” he says just before he stalks away from the table.

Bucky doesn’t know where he’s headed, all he knows is that he needs to get away. His heart wonders if he walks briskly enough maybe he can just disappear into another world. He hits a barrier, though, when he reaches the railing of the First Class deck. Of course, he does. Bucky’s trapped in a cage. Everywhere he turns, there’re bars surrounding him. 

Eyes scanning the deck below, envy creeps through his veins. There are so many people down there just… _existing_. Happily. No expectations. Or rather, not being held to the highest expectations. Children aren’t being shushed and told to sit up straight. They’re running around. Playing. Their parents laugh with them. Others are just lounging about, relaxing in the calm streams of the afternoon sun. 

The winds up here are strong. Strong enough that it runs through Bucky’s hair, and much to his irritation, keeps making his pocket square flap in several different directions. Huffing, Bucky yanks it out. He holds it between his two hands. A silly piece of fashion. Silly and unnecessary. He opens his hands and allows the winds to carry it wherever they please. Over the railing. Out to sea. 

Bucky sighs and rests his hands over the railing, drawn again to those below on the Third Class deck. Overcome with an odd sensation of being watched, Bucky flicks his eyes across the deck. Down below, a steerage boy is looking up at him. Sunlight swims through his wispy locks of golden hair. Bucky swings his gaze away. He tries to find something else to distract him from the inevitable–the fact that he’ll need to face what he’s said and done this afternoon, and probably sooner rather than later. 

Within moments, however, his gaze shifts back to the boy watching him. Who’s _still_ watching him. This time, when Bucky quickly looks away, it’s with an indignant lift of his chin. No one should be staring at him like that, a steerage passenger least of all. It’s rude. And improper. And yet, that envy that crept through Bucky earlier, grows stronger now. 

That boy, who’s hardly any more a few years older than Bucky, has the freedom to stare at whomever he wishes. There’s no one to stop him. Well, Bucky could always start a fuss about it. Something may be done in that case. But short of Bucky throwing a tantrum, he has the freedom Bucky can only dream of. 

A rush of tears hits Bucky hard and fast. Perhaps he can’t escape forever, but at the very least he can be afforded a few minutes in a different world. Bucky slips away from the railing and descends the stairs from the First Class deck down to the Steerage deck. He’s no desire to dawdle near the boy who’s been staring, so he hurries by him and his companions, making his way over to the handrail a few feet away from them.

He grabs hold of it. Tight. If he can hold on tight enough, maybe no one will be able to drag him away. Kicking and screaming. After a moment, Bucky remembers that cigarette he’d not been allowed to smoke. Since there’s no one here to boss him around, he plucks one out of its case and tries to light it–a little difficult with all the wind, but he manages. Once it’s lit, Bucky breathes it in, pleased with himself for this minor indiscretion. 

His one and only peaceful moment of the afternoon is shoved by the wayside when someone grabs his arm just above the elbow. The act catches him by surprise; not only does his cigarette fall from his fingers, he may’ve fallen back if not for the tight grip around his arm.

“What are you doing down here, James?” Alex says, low and controlled. “What goes through that head of yours?”

Instead of answering, Bucky looks at the hand tightly wrapped around him. He glances back up to Alex again. 

“Please, let go of my arm, Alex.” He makes his request calmly, but firmly. When he doesn’t, Bucky tries to pull back, only to have him grip even tighter. “Alex. Alex, you’re _hurting_ me.”

Alex gives him a look that makes Bucky wonder if he’s wishing they were in private right now so that he can throw discretion to the wind. He doesn’t release him yet, but the grip becomes less forceful. 

“Would you mind telling me what you were thinking,” he asks. “Making a fool out of me like that?”

Right, because everything Bucky does now revolves around him. 

Jaw tight and eyes even tighter, Bucky doesn’t answer beyond his heated glare. There’s a flash of anger in Alex’s eyes. If there’s one thing Bucky’s come to learn, it’s that he simply _loathes_ being ignored. In the face of that perfectly contained rage, Bucky does his very best not to shrink away or flinch. If he doesn’t blink, if he doesn’t look away, perhaps he can maintain a piece of himself. So, Bucky continues to scowl. 

Around them, the air grows hot and tense. Unmoving. Where the wind had been blowing steadily, now everything feels much too still. 

They go on staring at each other, for what might as well be hours. Anything is better than shaking or letting Alex think he’s weak–weaker than he already believes him to be, that is. But when Alex’s lips curve into a smooth, easy grin, Bucky swallows the blade that’s been pressed against the inside of his throat. Alex’s fingers lift away from his arm, one by one, then slip under Bucky’s chin. He tilts it upward, forcing Bucky’s head back. Bucky stiffened the second his fingers touched him, a tremble tumbling down his spine. 

“Answer me, James,” Alex says, calm and collected. “You know I don’t like it when you ignore me.”

Bucky’s throat tightens, his resolve quickly disappearing. The harsh reminder that Alex is the one in control here, and that Bucky can do nothing about it, is like a swift kick to the gut. A jagged breath catches in his throat and he finally blinks and drops his gaze to his feet. Where it belongs now. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers over the winds that’ve picked up again. “You’re right. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“Look at me, James.” He masks the severity of his voice with affection. Bucky hates it when he speaks to him this way. Like a disappointed parent to a child rather than a lover on equal footing. Bucky looks at him through damp eyelashes. “I will not tolerate such uncouth behavior. From my fiancé, especially.”

Uncouth behavior. Bucky knows what he means by that. He won’t tolerate Bucky acting out. Bucky’d lost that privilege the moment he said yes. 

“Yes, Alex,” Bucky says, voice thick with tears he refuses to shed. “I’ll do better. I promise.” 

“Oh, I know you will.”

Alex slides his hand from under Bucky’s chin up to his cheek. He lets it rest there for a moment before tapping it twice. Bucky can’t exactly call it rough, but it’s far from gentle. 

They stand there, once again staring at one another, for an agonizingly long moment. Until Alex, breaking the eye contact this time, steps to the side and gestures back toward the steps that will bring them up to their world. Bucky steps that way. Away from the riffraff that scurries around here on the bottom of life. 

Bucky is forced to be in someone’s company for the remainder of the day. If he’s not with Alex, sitting in silence while he holds discussions of utmost importance like who aboard the ship he’s wealthier than, then he’s with his mother, who sits around with the other women in their fine attire and jewelry, gossiping. The only time he’s given any freedom to be on his own is when he changes for supper. 

When the bugle played _The Roastbeef of Old England_ to announce suppertime, Bucky was overcome with relief. Just a moment by himself, that’s all he asked for. Which, of course, didn’t mean he was alone anyway. Darcy had been there to help him dress. Even there, though, Alex got his say. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, Bucky,” Darcy said as Bucky reached into the wardrobe to select the formal wear he intended on wearing. “Mr. Pierce has already selected something for you to wear.” 

The suit had been laid out for him on the bed. Bucky took it in with dismay. The black tailcoat and pants were fine as were the white waistcoat and bowtie. The shirt, however…the white button-down, starched shirt with its tall standing collar had Bucky’s fists clenched. That particular collar was dreadfully uncomfortable. The stiffness of the collar would prevent him from turning his head without discomfort. In fact, it would sometimes even leave bruises kissed upon his neck. 

Which is why he sits motionless in the Dining Saloon while flanked by people in heated conversations. Nobody interesting. At the table adjacent to theirs, Peggy Carter is engaged in a merry discussion with the Maximoff twins – Wanda and Pietro – and Wanda’s husband, Vincent. Behind them, Reed Richards and his fianceé Sue Storm laugh along with King T’Chaka and Queen Ramonda. 

Around Bucky’s table, Alex and Winifred laugh at whatever Baron Wolfgang von Strucker has just said. Not that Bucky knows what they’re laughing about. He simply stares at his plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around him. 

A quiver slithers through his limbs. He can see his entire life as if he’d already lived it. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. Bucky feels as though he stands at a great precipice, teetering off-balance, with no one to pull him back. No one who cares. Or even notices. 

The small fork from his crab salad is still in his hand. Without really thinking much about it, Bucky, fork in his grip, brings his arms beneath the table. He pokes the prongs into the skin of his arm, harder and harder until a tiny drop of blood is drawn. 

Bucky, gasping at what he’s done, drops the fork and quickly covers the spot he pierced. It doesn’t hurt, not really, and only a tiny spot of blood blossomed on his skin. 

“James.” Alex's quiet voice is suddenly close to Bucky’s ear. “You’ve barely touched your supper.”

Sure to keep his arm hidden, Bucky gives him a weak shake of the head. He’s sure to try to lift his mouth in something of a smile and can’t quite pull it off. 

“Actually, darling,” he says, “I’m not feeling very well. I could use some air.” Bucky starts to push away from the table but when he catches the look on Alex’s face, pauses. “If that’s…would that be all right with you, Alex?”

First sucking in a rough breath through flared nostrils, Alex narrows his eyes and then licks his teeth. He then relaxes that expression and places his hand over Bucky’s knee. 

“Would you like company, dear?”

“You needn’t trouble yourself.” Bucky needs to escape. Just for a minute. “I’ll be fine.”

Alex pats Bucky’s thigh. “Go get your air.”

Since Alex watches him expectantly, Bucky holds his breath and forces himself to press a soft kiss to his brow. This earns him a grin and possibly some more time to himself. Rather than hurrying like he’d done this afternoon, Bucky walks out slowly to avoid anyone noticing him. 

Out on B Deck, Bucky walks along the corridor, keeping himself perfectly composed. He is a gentleman, after all, and of a _certain caliber_ as they say. A steward walks toward him. He greets Bucky politely and Bucky answers with a nod and a slight smile. 

He makes it to his bedroom without being stopped by anyone. When Bucky enters the room, he stops in the middle of it and just stands there, staring at his reflection in the large vanity mirror. He doesn’t move. He can’t. Everything around him has taken a tight grip on his body. He can’t breathe. Can barely see past the blurred vision of his tears. 

Bucky tries desperately to wipe the tears away. To get control of his breathing. To make the room stop spinning. 

Nothing. Nothing is working. Nothing makes sense anymore. He is nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_.

With a primal, anguished cry Bucky claws at his throat, ripping at the collar choking him and tearing it in two. He flings the pieces across the room. Caught in a frenzy, turning him inside out, Bucky tears at himself, his clothes, his hair…then attacks the room. He flings everything off the dresser and it flies away, clattering against the wall. He grabs something else. Hurls it against the vanity.

Bucky’s heart stops when he sees the silver pocket watch drop to the floor. He falls to his knees, scrambling to pick it up. This had been the last gift he’d ever received from his father. It can’t…it just can’t be.

“No,” Bucky cries as trembling hands attempt to open it. “No, please…please, no…” When the top pops open and Bucky sees the crack running through the glass face, he loses all the breath in his lungs. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” He watches the second hand, willing it, _pleading_ for it, to move. Of course, it doesn't, and 8:23pm is the exact moment that Bucky realizes he can't do this, and sprints for the door.

Bucky runs so hard his legs burn. He’s completely disheveled – collar torn, shirt half untucked, hair flying. Tears stain his cheeks, continuously flowing from his eyes. His heart aches with a pain that’s just indescribable. And he’s angry. Bucky’s so angry–no, _furious_ –at the world that’s let this happen to him. At his father for dying. At his mother for abandoning him. At Alex for deceiving him. He shakes uncontrollably with so many emotions he doesn’t understand. Hatred. Self-loathing. Desperation.

A strolling couple sees him coming and Bucky, not caring about their shocked faces over his public emotional display, pushes between them. _Fuck_ them. Fuck this. Fuck _everything_.

Bucky flies across the deserted fantail, breath hitching in an occasional sob that he desperately tries to suppress. He slams against the base of the stern’s flagpole and clings to it, trembling and panting. There, he lets out a painful sob before staring out at the black water. 

His weeping gradually comes to a stop, though, his breath still hitches. Wiping tear-tracks away, Bucky slowly makes his way over to the railings at the stern. He clings onto the rail and glances around to make sure no one is near. With a hard gulp, Bucky starts to climb over the railing. 

The climb is clumsy. Difficult, even, with these shoes that slide a bit across the rails. Moving methodically, he turns his body and gets his heels on the white-painted gunwale, his back to the railing, facing out toward blackness. 

At least sixty feet below–a height that would normally see Bucky trembling in fear–the massive propellers churn the Atlantic into white foam and a ghostly wake trails off toward the horizon. The only sound, above the rush of water below, is the flutter and snap of the big Union Jack right above him. The tail of his shirt and hair are lifted by the wind of the ship's movement. He leans out, arms straightening, looking down, hypnotized, into the vortex beneath him. 

~~~

Steve watches the nighttime sky and smiles. It goes on forever, dotted with so many twinkling stars, and he can’t help feeling nearly insignificant in comparison. The feeling doesn’t scare him. Quite the contrary, even. The thought fills him with excitement. All it means are more things for him to see. More places for him to go. More adventures for him to have. 

A few days ago, he’d been sleeping under a bridge and tonight he’s lying across a bench on the poop deck of the RMS Titanic. All because of a lucky hand at poker. Sure, it was still cold, but this is a different type of cold. 

This cold filled Steve’s lungs with dreams. With promises of something grand. Being a steerage passenger doesn’t matter to him. Sure, he and Sam are bunking with total strangers that barely speak a word of English, but there were good people down there. Decent food and warm beer. Music and dancing. Steve’s time on the Titanic, he’s sure, will bring him to the best part of his life yet. 

Steve’s just brought his hands behind his head, that grin still stretched on his face, when someone rushes by at full speed, huffing and puffing as they run. Sitting up, Steve watches as he gets farther away until he finally slams into the base of the flagpole. There, he lets out a sob as he tries to catch his breath. He’s shivering. Steve can tell that even from here. He must be freezing. Unlike Steve, who has a pretty warm jacket on, he’s not even wearing the jacket of his suit, just that thin button-down.

After just a moment – of shivers and broken sobs and tears that he hastily wipes away – the man straightens up again and slowly makes his way toward the stern of the ship, glancing around as he does. Almost as though he’s afraid of being watched. This only makes Steve think that he should leave him to his privacy, especially when he sees who it is. 

The boy from earlier. The one who’d been harshly reprimanded by the man with him. Whatever’s happening now, Sam’s earlier advice to not get involved probably still holds water. This boy and the man he’s with are First Class. To meddle in their affairs only ever means trouble. 

But there’s something about this situation that feels…off. Wrong. Steve can’t just walk away. Not yet. 

And, much to Steve’s horror, he begins to climb over the railing.

Steve almost shouts out to him, to tell him not to do it, but, afraid of startling him enough that it makes him let go, he refrains. Instead, he slowly and quietly makes his way over to him. To where he’s hanging off the back of the ship. Steve wants to run there and swear to him that this isn’t the way. He just can’t imagine what’s happened to this poor boy that he doesn’t see any other way out. 

“Don’t do it,” he says over the wind and ocean. “Please.”

Just as he feared earlier, Steve startles him. He looks over his shoulder with a gasp and stares wide-eyed at Steve. 

“Don’t come any closer!” he exclaims. “Stay back!”

That doesn’t keep Steve back, though. He can’t stay back or leave. Instead, he holds his hand out, ready to help this boy back over the railing to safety. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs as he gradually steps closer, “just gimme your hand. I’ll pull you back over.”

“ _No_.” He lets go once like he means to shoo Steve away but grips the railing again before he can. “Stay where you are. I _mean_ it. I’ll let go.”

This isn’t going to be easy. One wrong move and he’ll lose this hand. Much more important than a game of poker, this one. This is someone’s life. Steve might need to proceed with caution, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t take a risk if it might save this boy’s life. After all, nothing good ever came without a little risk. 

Steve holds out his palms to him and moves closer still. Says, “No, you won’t.” 

Eyes lifting from the rough waters below, he looks at Steve somewhere between shocked and angry. 

“Excuse me?”

“You won’t. Jump, I mean.”

“Yes, I will! Who are _you_ to tell me what I will or will not do? How dare you presume to _know_ me.” 

If this scenario were different, Steve might have a laugh at that. Now standing right at the railing, Steve slips his hands into his pockets.

“Well, it’s just…” He leaves his voice calm and soft while his heart flails with panic inside of him. “You’d’ve done it already.”

Shaking his head, he makes an irritated face at Steve and looks away again. He wipes at the tears still rolling down his cheeks and almosts loses his grip. 

“You’re distracting me. Go away.” 

“I can’t do that.”

“What? _Why_ not? Just leave me alone.”

“I can’t. I’m involved now.” Steve pretends to sigh as he grasps at anything he can to hold him in place. “I’m sorta with you to the end of the line. See, if you let go…” He shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m gonna have to jump in after you.” 

Those big, steely-blue eyes flash wider at him. He opens his mouth a few times in baffled silence before he shakes his head.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says. “You’ll be killed.”

“Maybe, but I’m a good swimmer.”

“The fall alone will kill you.”

Foot against one of the anchors, Steve’s taken to unlacing his boots. He twists his lips and nods because he’s absolutely right. That could kill him. Doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. Doesn’t mean he won’t really jump in after him. Steve really can’t just walk away now.

“It’ll hurt, you’re right, I’m not saying it wouldn’t.” Steve pulls off one boot and starts untying the next. “Tell ya the truth, I’m a _lot_ more concerned ‘bout that water being so cold.” 

Chin lifting slightly, he looks back to the water again and, for the first time since all this started, actually appears nervous. Okay, Steve’ll take it. 

“H-How cold?” he asks. “Really cold?”

“Freezing,” Steve tells him, honestly. “Maybe a little above.” He pulls his other boot off and looks over the edge as though he’s not paying much attention to anything other than the water. “You, uh, you ever been to Buffalo, New York?” 

Steve’s pretty damn sure the answer to that is no. Even surer when he gets that baffled expression again which Steve might find adorable if he wasn’t making it while hanging off the back of the Titanic. 

“What?”

“Well, they have some of the coldest winters in New York. I used to visit some family friends there when I was little and I remember one winter I went ice fishing with my mom…” Steve pauses when he receives another one of those baffled expressions. “Ice-fishing is, y’know, when–”

“I know what ice fishing is!”

“Okay.” Steve stretches his lips in apology. “Sorry. You just…you, uh, seem like kind of an indoor guy. Anyway, we went ice fishing on Lake Ontario and I fell through some thin ice and I’m tellin’ ya, water like that…” He takes hold of the railing and looks down. “Like that water down there, it hits you like a thousand knives. It’s like you’re being stabbed _all over_ your body. You can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t even think. At least not about anything but the pain.” 

He pauses as if he’s really thinking about that when what he’s more interested in is that he’s definitely got his attention about this. Steve takes in a deep breath and takes off his vest next. 

“Which is why I’m really not looking forward to jumping in there after you,” he says. They lock eyes again and that steel in his has melted into something soft. Steve says, “But I’m stuck. When I see a situation pointed south I just can’t turn away. Sometimes I wish I could.” No, he doesn’t. “Y’know, I’m just kinda hopin’ that maybe you’ll let me off the hook here.”

Eyes still softer, he looks away again and back out onto the ocean. He mumbles, “You’re crazy.”

This, Steve does chuckle at. He’s been told that almost his whole life. Something like it, anyway. 

“A lot of people say that, but, beggin’ your pardon, sir, of the two of us, you’re the one hanging off the back of a ship. Not me.” Steve extends his arm, hand out to him. Their arms just brush as he does. “C’mon, you don’t wanna do this. Please. Just gimme your hand and I’ll help you back over.” 

Eyes squeezed closed, it looks like he might start sobbing again. But he nods and unfastens his right hand from the rail and reaches around to put it in Steve’s. Steve takes hold of it, firmly, to help him slowly turn around to face him. Once he does, Steve takes hold of his other hand as well and breathes out a sigh of relief. He smiles at him. 

“I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve snickers a little. “You might have to write that one down for me.”

James laughs at that. It’s wet and there’re tears behind it, but he does laugh. He says, “Bucky.”

“What?”

“I don’t like being called James. It’s Bucky.”

“Bucky, then.” Bucky’s just placed his foot up to pull himself back over. “C’mon, Bucky, let’s get you–”

Just as he puts his weight down, his shoe slips on the thin bar he’d tried to balance it on and one foot slips off the deck. He plunges, shrieking. 

Steve, gripping him with two hands, is jerked against the rail. Panic, wet and hot, shoots through Steve’s belly. He tugs at him, urging him to pull himself back up with the help. 

“Come on, Bucky!” he shouts. “You can do it! Pull yourself up!”

He’s able to grab hold of the lowest rung once, but it slips from his grip and he falls again, clasping onto Steve’s arm.

“Help!” Bucky yells. Begs. Pleads. “Please, Steve! Don’t let go!” 

“I’m not gonna let go, Bucky! I swear!” Steve’ll jump voluntarily before he lets go. “Look at me, Bucky! Look at me. I’m _not_ going to let you go. Trust me.” Bucky, eyes full of tears, looks at him and nods. “Now, pull yourself up!”

Bucky nods again and takes a better grip as Steve starts to pull. They pull together and, this time when Bucky grabs hold of the railing, he’s able to pull himself back up with Steve’s help. As soon as he’s standing again, Steve wraps his arm around his waist and tugs him back to the deck. When he does, Bucky topples over and Steve, in his attempt to grab him, ends up falling on top of him. 

Bucky’s trembling all over, tears trailing down his cheeks, and unable to speak. Terrified, Steve tries to check on his well-being. 

“Bucky? Bucky, can you hear me? Are you all right? Can you see me?”

He’s staring up at him, mouth forming nonsensical words. Steve takes to trying to warm him, running his hands up and down his arms. 

“Bucky, it’s okay. You’re okay, I promise.”

Footsteps. They come at them hard and fast with a shout of “What’s all this?” being yelled at them when several deckhands surround them. 

The second they’re there, Steve is hauled away from Bucky. He’s shoved back as the two stewards take in the scene. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they see. Bucky’s a mess. Hair disheveled. Several of his buttons missing. He’s close to hysterics, sobs making his chest quake with each intake of breath. He’s still too frightened to say a word and he’s flat on his back trembling from head to toe. 

Then there’s Steve. The steerage passenger they happened to find _on top_ of him. Obviously there’s no other reason for what they’re seeing than Steve forcing Bucky to the ground and attacking him. Given Bucky’s state, it probably looks like he attempted to molest him. 

Steve scoffs a sigh and steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“You there!” one of the stewards yells. “Stay _right_ where you are!” To the other man, “Hurry! Fetch the Master at Arms!”

Within a matter of minutes, Bucky’s pulled to his feet by the two stewards and a blanket is tossed around his shoulders. Steve is detained by the big, burly Master at Arms, arms pulled behind his back and wrists slapped with iron cuffs. Three other gentlemen have joined them. Two, Steve doesn’t know. The first one still has his Brandy snifter and offers it to Bucky who’s crying on a bench just a few feet away. Bucky politely declines the offer. The second man is the one that Bucky is traveling with, and without sparing more than a second to check on Bucky’s well-being, he’s in Steve’s face. Furious. He grabs Steve by the lapels and jerks him closer.

“What made you think you could put your hands on _my_ fiancé?!” Ah, so that’s how they know each other. Bucky and this older man are engaged. Funny how their two worlds are so different. If Carol and Maria wanted to be married, they’d be met with scorn and disdain. Exceptions are made for people with the right background and influence. In every area of life. Steve’s gaze slides to where Bucky sits shivering beneath the blanket on the bench. Their eyes meet. “Look at _me_ , you filth!” 

“Alex…” Bucky says in a weak, shaky voice.

Alex, either not hearing him or purposely ignoring him, continues to berate Steve for what’s happened. As much as Steve would very much like to stay out of handcuffs for the remainder of his time on the Titanic, and avoid possibly getting arrested when they dock, he can’t bring himself to say what really happened. If they find out that Bucky climbed over that railing on his own, it would mean a world of trouble for him. They might even have him locked away. Not to help him, but to get rid of the embarrassment.

“What did you think you were doing?!”

“Alex!” Bucky finds his voice now and gets his fiancé’s attention. “Alex, stop! It was an accident!”

Still not releasing the tight hold he has on Steve, Alex scoffs and looks between the two of them.

“An _accident_?!”

Bucky rises off the bench now, keeping the blanket clenched tightly around him. He steps over to them and places a gentle hand over one of Alex’s wrists. 

“It was, really,” he says. “It was so stupid. I was…I was leaning over and I…I slipped.”

“You… _slipped_?”

Doesn’t sound as though Alex believes a word of that. Bucky’s eyes quickly find Steve’s, getting the eye contact as though he needs help with his lie. While Steve would love to assist him, he really doesn’t know where he’s going with this. 

“Yes. Really. I…I was leaning far over because I wanted to see the…the, uh…” Bucky’s eyes close as though trying to reach into his mind for the word he’s lost. He turns a finger in a circle. “You know, the…um…”

Following along with Bucky’s finger, Alex’s eyebrows slowly raise. He blinks a few times, likely trying to figure out what Bucky’s trying to say.

“The propellers?” he fills in for him. 

Bucky’s eyes fly open with a grateful and impressed smile. “Propellers! That’s it! Thank you, Alex, the propellers. Yes, I was leaning over to see the propellers and I slipped. And I would have gone overboard if it wasn’t for Mr. Rogers’ help. He almost went over himself, but he saved me.”

“He wanted to see the propellers,” Alex says. Morbidly amused. “Do you hear that, General Ross? He wanted to see the propellers.”

General Ross, still with his glass of Brandy, shakes his head with something of an all-knowing smirk curled up on his lips. 

“It’s like I always say.” He sniggers. “Women and men of James’ _character_ just shouldn’t mix with machinery.” 

Well, maybe exceptions are made for two people of the same sex to marry among the wealthy and prestigious, but that clearly doesn’t mean assumptions aren’t made or judgments passed. 

The Master at Arms tugs Steve away from Alex. Hands at his wrists, still tightly cuffed in iron, he moves Steve so that he can turn his head just enough to see him. 

“Was that the way of it, then?”

Steve looks back to Bucky, whose eyes widen briefly. Within them, Steve can see the unspoken plea. Bucky begging him not to say what really happened. 

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Steve says, eyes still locked with Bucky’s. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

Steve watches Bucky for a moment longer, those bright, steel-blue eyes cooling into unbelievable gratitude. Even if they never see each other again, they now have a secret between them that will last a lifetime.

“Well, I suppose that makes the boy a hero,” Ross remarks with a slight raise of his glass in Steve’s direction. “Good for you, boy.” He turns back to Alex. “So, it’s all well and back to our Brandy, eh?”

As Steve is uncuffed, and works his arms out, rubbing at his wrists, Alex finally approaches Bucky and touches his chin.

“Look at you, James.” His voice turns soft, possibly out of concern and affection, but if Steve didn’t already know better, he’d think Alex was speaking to a child. “You must be freezing. I never should have let you go by yourself. Come now. Let’s get you inside.” 

Alex turns to leave with Bucky, without even a second thought given to Steve. Steve figures that’s that. He’ll never converse with them again. Only General Ross stops and nudges Alex’s arm.

He says, lowly, “Uh, perhaps a little something for the boy?”

Glancing back to Steve as though he’d already forgotten about his existence, Alex pauses and gestures to the last man there with them. His valet, Steve assumes. A large, stocky man with a square build and intense look about him. 

“Right, right.” Alex nods. “Brock, give the boy a twenty.” 

“A _twenty_?” Bucky questions, sounding almost amused and mildly insulted. “Is that the going rate for the man you love?”

Alex, pausing, turns an amused grin on him. “James is displeased.” Steve hasn’t missed the fact that everyone here has called Bucky by James instead of his preferred nickname. “What should be done? Hm.” 

Eyes cast on Steve now, Alex appraises him condescendingly, most likely taking in Steve’s appearance. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers. Unkempt hair. Dirty boots. Nothing but a steerage ruffian, to him. Unwashed and ill-mannered. 

“I know,” Alex says mostly to himself when he’s hit with an idea. To Steve, “Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow, to regale our group with your heroic tale?”

Steve regards him for a moment before setting his gaze straight to Bucky. Bucky’s biting his lip. 

“Sure,” Steve says with a nod of his head. “Count me in.”

“Good. It’s settled then.” Alex turns to go, putting a protective arm around Bucky. He leans close to Ross as they walk away and Steve can hear him murmur, “This ought to be interesting.” 

Just before they’d round the corner and disappear down the corridor, Bucky takes one last glimpse over his shoulder. Small fingers wave at Steve from within the blanket Bucky’s still got wrapped around him. About to follow behind them, is Alex’s valet, Brock, who’s just removed a cigarette from a shiny, silver case. 

“Hey,” Steve says as he passes. “Can I bum a smoke?”

Brock stops and smoothly pulls that case out of his breast pocket again. He snaps it open and Steve helps himself to a cigarette that he pops between his lips and then another that he slips behind his ear. Surprisingly, Brock even whips out a lighter, holding it out for Steve so he can light it. While he does, though, his motive for being kind becomes clear.

“You’ll want to tie those,” he says, cooly, glancing down to Steve’s boots, their laces still undone from earlier. “Interesting that the young man slipped so mighty all of a sudden and you still had time to take off your jacket and shoes. Mmm?”

Brock’s expression is bland, but those eyes are cold. Cigarette between his lips, Steve simply raises his eyebrows in response. Brock turns away to join his group, leaving Steve as though he never mattered in the first place. Which, to them, is probably true. 

First taking some time to enjoy this cigarette, Steve sits down on the same bench he’d been on when Bucky ran past him. He’s never had a packaged cigarette before. Steve is used to rolling his own, so this is a pleasant change. Thoughts of Bucky, however, are far from pleasant. 

There’s a spark in that boy’s eyes. A spark just waiting to strike a fire within. And something happened tonight that made him think he had no way out. Steve hates to think that anyone would ever feel that way. So lost and alone and helpless. The way he felt after his mother died. But even then, Steve had been hard-pressed to move on. He refused to let that fire inside of him die with her. She would be mighty furious with him if he had and would definitely lay into him whenever they met again. 

Steve smiles at the thought. Hopes he’s done his mother proud. He’s wondered often if she’d approve of his decisions. The ones that’ve brought him through this life without her. 

Finished with the cigarette, Steve flicks the butt away and strolls across the deck back to E Deck. When he gets there, he’s greeted by loud music and uproarious laughter. The Third Class passengers are still up and at ‘em. Having a splendid time even with the lack of refinery and grandeur. 

Across the room, Steve spots Sam on one of the benches. As he starts for him, Steve sees that he is not alone. Natalia is with him, and they are holding hands. When they notice his approach, they both grin. 

“Well,” Steve says. “Don’t you two look cozy.” 

Sam rolls his eyes while Natalia gives him the bird. This makes Steve snicker, but thoughts still above deck with Bucky must give him away. 

“Uh-oh,” Sam says. “I’ve seen that look before. What’s on your mind?”

“Me?” Steve pivots around this one. “Nothin’. Just tired. Think I’m gonna head in early.”

“No foolin’?” Sam replies. “Steve Rogers is gonna turn in before me?” 

Steve shrugs. “First time for everything?”

Under Sam’s scrutiny, Steve nearly shrinks away. He feels badly about lying to him, but he isn’t at liberty to discuss what happened. 

“Well, if you wanna talk about what’s bothering you,” Sam says, “I’m all ears.” 

Steve grins and pats Sam on the shoulder. To Natalia, he says, “Don’t keep him up too late, yeah?”

Lips pursed into a cool grin, Natalia runs her thumbs across Sam’s knuckles. They look at each other and exchange a smile. They look rather cute together. 

“I make no such promises,” she answers. 

After another laugh, Steve excuses himself and makes his way back to his room. One of his roommates is in bed, already asleep. Steve enters the room and washes quietly. He changes into his pajamas. Instead of getting into bed like he’d planned, Steve grabs his sketchpad and sits out in the hallway where he starts drawing a pair of immaculate and pristine hands. Hands that hide pain and longing and a story Steve will probably never learn. 

~~~

Bucky needs to remember to thank Darcy in the morning. When he returned to his room – after being fussed over by Alex and Winifred, which then turned into a lecture about responsibility and maturity – he found the disarray he’d left it in had been cleaned and the whole room neatened. One less thing he needed to worry about. At least neither Alex nor Winifred would see what he’d done. 

Dressed and ready for bed, Bucky sits at the vanity in the room, trying desperately not to think of what happened out on the deck. The guilt is overwhelming. The thought of leaning off the back of the ship the way he had, almost ready to plunge into the ocean to escape the bleak life that’s waiting for him when they dock, hurts. He doesn’t want to run away from his problems. His father had always taught him to be brave and to face life’s troubles whenever they came. Diving off the back of a ship is hardly what he meant. 

More than any of that, Bucky can’t seem to erase Steve Rogers from his mind. He supposes that might be normal. The man, after all, did save him. And then nearly was arrested for keeping Bucky’s secret. 

He has no idea why a steerage boy of all people wouldn’t tell them what really happened to keep himself from getting into trouble, but he hadn’t, and Bucky will be eternally grateful for that. Bucky wonders what tomorrow evening will be like when Mr. Rogers joins them for supper. Alex’s invitation had been made out of a twisted sense of superiority and nothing to do with courtesy. No doubt he expects Mr. Rogers to be the subject of scrutiny and judgment. Bucky’s crowd isn’t exactly known for their acceptance.

Sighing, Bucky realizes that he’s just sitting here in silence, his thoughts racing when he’d very much prefer them to be still. Eyes falling on his music box, Bucky offers it a grin and lifts the cover. Inside, is the little gold key to wind it. Bucky plucks it out, fits it into the keyhole, and winds it a few times. A tiny smile touches his mouth when Johann Strauss’s _Tales_ _from The Vienna Woods_ begins to play. 

The music has always soothed him. A comforting friend he could always count on to lull him to sleep during dark, troubling nights. Bucky doesn’t remember a time without this music box. A gift that Winifred picked out while she still carried him within. At least Bucky will always have a piece of his mother’s heart. A reminder that, at one time, she thought of him before others. 

As the music continues to play, Bucky picks up his hairbrush – silver plated and made with long, dense boar’s hair – and runs it through his windblow locks. The very same locks his hands made a mess of before he’d even stepped outside. 

He’s still brushing his hair when something in the mirror’s reflection catches his attention. Bucky glances at it. Sees that Alex, in his silk pajama set and robe, is standing in the doorway. Brush at his hair, Bucky freezes. 

“I know you’ve been melancholy,” Alex says, pushing away from the door and coming closer. “I don’t pretend to know why.”

Bucky watches from the mirror as he approaches, only looking right at him when he comes to stand at his side. From behind his back, Alex shows him a black, velvet jewel case. Bucky looks at it. Numb and exhausted. 

“I intended to save this,” he goes on, flicking the top of the music box closed and silencing its soft music. Alex pushes it aside like the plaything of a child. “Until the engagement gala next week. But…I thought tonight.” 

He lifts the top of the case. Bucky gasps at what’s inside. It’s a necklace. A blue stone, heart-shaped, glittering with an infinity of scalpel-like inner reflections. It’s huge. Bucky’s never seen a jewel of this proportion and magnitude. His fingers raise, almost drawn to its magnificence, and skim the very bottom. 

“My God…” he breathes, stunned at what Alex is presenting to him. “Alex…”

“Perhaps a reminder of my feelings for you.”

Fingers falling from the jewel down to his engagement ring, Bucky looks at it. Another blue gem. The one in his ring, however, is a sapphire. He wonders about this one. 

Bucky glances up at him. “Is it a–”

“Diamond?” He smiles. “Yes, it is. Fifty-six carats to be exact.” 

He removes the necklace by the thick chain of smaller gems and places it around Bucky’s throat, turning Bucky just enough to face the mirror again. Its weight is almost astonishing. Though simply breathtaking, it might as well be a dog collar closing around Bucky’s neck, declaring him the property of Alexander Pierce. Bucky reaches up and touches it where it rests heavily upon his skin. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Eyes still on their reflections, Bucky nods. He’s aware of the way Alex looks at him through the mirror. Admiring what he’s done here. 

“It was once worn by Louis the Sixteenth,” Alex explains. “They call it _Le Coeur de la Mer_. The–”

“ _Heart of the Ocean_ ,” Bucky says along with Alex. 

“Yes.” Alex grins as though impressed with Bucky’s linguistic skill. “Very good.” 

Bucky swallows roughly, the diamond still heavy against his throat. He stares at his reflection for a long moment before attempting to subtly shift it to a more comfortable spot. Unsuccessfully.

“Alex, it’s…it’s overwhelming.”

Head just inches from Bucky’s, Alex gives him an arrogant smirk and a brush of his hand over his hair. 

“It’s for royalty,” he says. Watches Bucky for a few seconds in the mirror. “We _are_ royalty, James.”

For just a second, merely a heartbeat, Bucky’s eyes drop. Such a statement is likely meant to make him feel better. As though he should be pleased to be seen as royalty. Someone above all the rest. With privilege and Divine Right. The world his for the taking. Rather than being pleased, all Bucky feels is disdain. He doesn’t want the world. He just wants freedom from it.

Next to him, Alex crouches down and tucks a lock of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. It won’t stay there, but Alex can’t possibly know that. His fingers caress his neck and throat. Alex, for a moment, seems to be disarmed by Bucky’s reflection. Perhaps he sees something elegant. Something he finds beautiful. Something that’s his. 

“There's nothing I couldn't give you, you know. There's nothing I'd deny you.” Alex’s hand grazes beneath the opening of Bucky’s nightshirt. Bucky tenses, eyes closing. “If you would not deny me.” His hand moves away now and Bucky breathes again. He looks over to see Alex running fingers through his hair. Alex sighs and touches Bucky’s chin. “Oh, open your heart to me, James. You might find it a much more peaceful place.”

Bucky watches him for a few seconds before looking back at the mirror. At his reflection still wearing Alex’s extravagant tag for him. Of course, this gift is only to reflect light back onto himself, to illuminate the greatness that is Alexander Pierce. It is a cold stone…a heart of ice. Like the one which beats beneath Alex’s chest.

“We should…put this away,” Bucky says. “Keep it safe until the gala.” 

First sighing, Alex nods and rises back to his feet. He unfastens the clasp, gently removing the necklace and placing it back in its box. The second it’s off, Bucky feels lighter. He can breathe once more. For the time being.

“Get a good rest,” Alex says, adding a kiss to the back of Bucky’s head. “You had a long, stressful night.” 

“Yes, Alex,” Bucky replies as Alex makes for the door. “Thank you. Good night.” 

“Sweet dreams, darling.” 

Once the door closes behind him, Bucky buries his face in his palms, throwing his elbows onto the vanity. He lets out an unsteady breath. Shakes his head. The weight of the necklace still pulls at his neck. 

Bucky, refusing to let Alex bring him to tears again, moves away from the vanity and climbs into bed. He pulls the covers all around him, the chill of April air kissing his skin. Eyes closing, Bucky wants to put this day behind him as quickly as possible. 

What he tries to shove out of his mind the most, is the way he felt when he looked in Steve Rogers’s eyes. And how they somehow, suddenly, filled Bucky’s entire universe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some images from this chapter:
> 
> This is the inspiration for the suit Bucky wore for breakfast
> 
> Bucky's engagement ring
> 
> The suit Alex picked out for Bucky to wear at dinner
> 
> this here is a postcard written by Sarah Daniels, a maid to the Allisons, a wealthy family from Canada, and wrote to her friend Nell Green. 
> 
> It reads: “I wish you were here, it is a lovely boat and it would do you good. Am just going on deck.” The card has a post stamp of Queenstown, now Cobh in Cork, Ireland, which was the port from which mail written on board was posted. She traveled on the Titanic in first class with businessman Hudson Allison, his wife Bessie, their two children, Lorraine and Trevor, and nursemaid Alice Cleaver. 
> 
> According to witness statements after the disaster, when the ship struck the iceberg, Daniels investigated but was unable to convince Mr. and Mrs. Hudson to join her on deck because they did not believe they were in any danger.
> 
> Daniels, 37, was eventually rescued when the crew directed her to lifeboat eight and she made her escape along with Cleaver who rescued baby Trevor.
> 
> Daniels told the Manitoba Free Press: “The boat I was in was not very crowded. There were only 4 men in the boat and they took the oars. There was no officer in the boat and a woman steered as we were rowing away in the darkness.”


	4. April 13th, 1912

_**April 13th, 1912** _

In the morning, Bucky wakes feeling freer somehow. He’s not entirely sure why. Nothing has changed. And yet, everything is different. At breakfast, he’s able to answer all the invasive questions about what happened last night without sweating like a sinner in church. 

Everyone that Alex and Winifred have chosen to sit with today is simply fascinated by Bucky’s brush with death. The Countess de Froste asks if he was terribly frightened. Hela Odinson, an heiress to a prominent Norwegian family, wonders what it felt like to be in death’s hands. One of her two younger brothers, Loki, who always seems as bored with the company as Bucky feels, questions the validity of Bucky’s tale of simply falling over because he’d been curious about the propellers. Before having to answer that, a brief smirk turns up on Loki’s lips and he winks, as though sharing a joke with him. Bucky doesn’t quite understand it but he does appreciate the possible sentiment and understanding. Despite General Ross’s comment about women – and boys with Bucky’s _tastes_ – and machinery not mixing, Actress Whitney Frost is more interested in whether Bucky actually _got_ his look at the propellers. 

The questions are unavoidable all day long. Bucky would think that Alex might put a stop to them. He figures that Bucky’s assumed clumsiness and silly judgment would be seen as embarrassing. But he never stops them. He allows everyone and anyone to come up to Bucky and ask him about what happened. Alex appears to relish in Bucky’s unwanted attention. If Bucky is the most popular person around, then he, by extension, is as well. 

It’s just before Afternoon Tea in the First Class Reception Room when Bucky finally reaches his limit. Alex has retreated to the parlor room with some of the other men, entrusting Bucky to stay safe with his mother. Now, without Alex’s hovering, Bucky waves the questions off, hoping that they’ll understand he’s simply exhausted by all this. While tea is being served, it works, and Bucky is able to shift the attention away from him. Winifred goes on speaking animatedly with the Countess, and Bucky has a moment of peace. 

“One of the perks of sending a child to university is to find a suitable spouse,” she’s saying. “James has already done that, so really, there isn’t any need for him to attend.”

Bucky sighs to himself. When he was younger, Winifred used to talk proudly about Bucky’s intelligence. She’d boast about how well he’d do in any prestigious university. She and his father even spoke about him attending Cambridge. Now, however, the idea of him going to university at all is out of the question.

Glancing around the room, Bucky looks for something that might help drown out the conversation taking place in front of him.

At the table next to them, he sees Mr. Stark, thumbing through that notebook of his. Bucky almost stands, meaning to excuse himself from his table to greet him, when he notices that he’s sitting with Mr. Killian and Captain Smith. Of the three of them, Mr. Killian is the only one smiling. Bucky doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but in his attempts to ignore his own table, he can’t help overhearing their conversation.

“So you've not lit the last four boilers, then?” Mr. Killian is asking.

“No.” Captain Smith shakes his head. “We’re making excellent time.”

“Captain, the press knows the size of Titanic,” Mr. Killian says. “Let them marvel at her speed too. We must give them something new to print. And the maiden voyage of Titanic _must_ make headlines!”

Mr. Stark weighs in now, with a small frown on his face. “We shouldn’t push the engines until they’ve been properly run in.”

“Of course, I leave it to your good offices to decide what's best, I’m merely a passenger,” Mr. Killian responds, turning his attention back to Captain Smith, “but what a _glorious_ end to your last crossing if we get into New York Tuesday night and surprise them all.” He slaps a hand on the table. “You’d make the morning papers. Retire with a bang, eh, E.J?”

They fall silent for a beat. Captain Smith glances at Mr. Stark who very subtly shakes his head. When Captain Smith nods, stiffly, Bucky can’t be sure who he’s agreeing with. 

“Oh no,” Countess de Froste says under her breath. “That vulgar Carter woman is coming this way.”

Bucky looks over his shoulder and smiles as Peggy comes toward them. She already has a smile of her own, but it grows when she catches Bucky looking at her. 

“James.” Winifred calls him as though she’s been attempting to recapture his attention more than once. When he turns back around, he sees that she and the Countess are starting to stand. “Get up. Quickly. Before she can sit with us.” 

“But, Mother…”

“ _Now_ , James.”

Before Bucky can rise to his feet, Peggy reaches them. That big smile is still on her face. Bucky wonders if she realizes the haste in which everyone here – including him, though very against his will – has tried to escape her presence. If she does, she faces it with steadfast courage. She doesn’t even bat an eye. Bucky wishes he had her bravery. 

“Hello, everyone,” Peggy greets. “I was hoping to catch you at tea.”

“We’re awfully sorry you missed it,” Winifred says, the lie slipping from her tongue as cool as silk. “We were just about to take the air on the boat deck.”

“That sounds lovely,” Peggy replies. “I’ll join you. I need to catch up on my gossip.” 

Though Bucky sees Winifred grit her teeth – and by the wink he receives from Peggy, she must as well – she reluctantly leads the way up the Grand Staircase. She and the Countess begin talking about the engagement of Reed Richards to Sue Storm. As they pass the end of the enclosed promenade and Bucky steps into the sunlight, he’s struck by the way it feels upon his skin. The way it hits his face. Sings through his hair. As if he hasn’t felt the sun in years. 

When Bucky realizes they’re headed straight for the metal steps that he charged down when he stormed out of lunch yesterday, he veers that way. Then pauses, knowing full well he cannot just go down them in front of his mother. Not any day, but not after yesterday, especially. 

“Mother,” he says, interrupting whatever it is she’s currently talking about. “Pardon me, but…I’m feeling a little lightheaded.” Bucky touches his brow with the back of his hand for added effect. “I think I’ll go lie down before supper is called.” 

“Are you all right, James? You’re not coming down with something, are you?” She comes closer and does what he’s just done with her own hand. Moves it around. Same as she did when he was young, and for just a moment, Bucky can see and feel the woman who raised him. With a firm hand, but warm eyes and a loving touch. 

Loneliness touches Bucky’s heart. He wishes so badly that he could capture this moment and keep it with him always. If only there was some way to make _this_ Winifred stay with him.

“No,” he whispers, her eyes meeting his when he does. “It must be from all the excitement, that’s all.” 

“Hm.” She pulls her hand away and nods. Looks at him as though she too felt the moment that passed between them. “Well, just be careful. We don’t need any more excitement around here, do we?”

Just like that, the moment is over, and Winifred has reverted into this new, colder version of his mother. Bucky pulls out his most convincing smile and nods. 

“Of course not, Mother. I’ll be just fine.”

“Right then, I’ll leave you to it.” Winifred turns back to Peggy and the Countess and two other women Bucky hadn’t even noticed joined on the walk. “Come, ladies. I’m afraid we’ll be without James’s company. Now, did you see that _horrid_ dress she was wearing…”

Bucky waits until they’re out of sight before unlatching the gate to go down into the Third Class section again. The steerage men on the deck stop what they're doing and stare at him, but Bucky pays them no mind. His eyes scan the area and when he finds no sign of Steve, he descends the stairwell that will take him below deck to the Steerage General Room.

The room, finished in white enameled pine and fitted with slat-seated benches and teak chairs, is a stark change from the opulence of Bucky’s First Class life. It doesn’t appear to have any upholstered surfaces – everything is either wood or metal. There’s a certain smell that takes him a few seconds to get used to. It’s very loud, too. No one seems to care about keeping their voices lowered in their fight to be heard. It’s a boisterous place. 

Mothers are there with their babies. Kids run between the benches yelling in several languages and get scolded in several more. There are old women yelling, men playing chess, girls doing needlepoint and reading dime novels. There is even an upright piano with a man noodling around it. Bucky wonders if it’s in tune. Perhaps he could play a song for them. 

Three boys, shrieking and shouting, are scrambling around chasing a rat under the benches, trying to whomp it with a shoe and causing general havoc. Upon sight of the rat, Bucky gasps and jumps back up a step. His cheeks redden with embarrassment, but luckily, no one has even noticed him yet. 

Bucky, continuing down the steps, sees who he’s come here for. Steve Rogers is sitting on one of the benches with a little girl, drawing with her from what Bucky can tell. He’s making her laugh. Next to him are the two people that were with him yesterday afternoon. They’re engrossed in conversation, the man inclined a bit toward the lady. They’re all joined by the man who was at the piano who picks up the little girl drawing with Steve – her father, probably, given how she giggles and he places her on his lap.

“What’re you two goin’ on about over here?” he asks when the little girl finishes showing him what she and Steve had been doing.

“I’m tryin’ to work on a deal here,” the other man responds. “Free tour of New York for free Russian lessons.” 

The lady rolls her eyes and says back to him, in a thick, heavy accent, “It’s hardly fair. One tour for long months of lessons.” 

“We can make it two.”

“No deal!”

“ _я могу научить тебя._ ” 

Just reaching the bottom step, Bucky freezes when that comes out of his mouth. He cannot believe he’s said anything at all, let alone that. When he does, though, the lady catches his eye. The gentleman trying to make this deal with her does a double-take. The little girl’s father stares at him. Curious of whatever’s made his friends fall silent, Steve’s gaze lifts and follows theirs. To where Bucky is coming toward him.

The activity in the room stops. A hush falls. Bucky feels very self-conscious as the steerage passengers stare openly at him, some with resentment, others with awe. As if his presence is both fascinating and unwelcome. Careful not to touch anything, Bucky gives Steve a little smile, walking straight to him. Steve rises to meet him, returning that smile. 

“Hello, Mr. Rogers,” Bucky greets, softly.

Steve, carding fingers through his hair, shifts his weight from foot to foot. Nervous. Funny, he didn’t come across as nervous at all last night, and given the circumstances, it’s almost strange that he’d be now.

“Hello again,” he replies.

The other two men exchange a nonplussed glance and then stare wide-eyed between Bucky and Steve. Before either of them could say another word, the woman speaks. 

“ _Ты говоришь по-русски._ ”

Bucky nods, eyes on his feet. This woman, steerage of all people, is very intimidating and Bucky has trouble holding her gaze.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I do.”

“What does he do, Natalia?” asks the man she’d been speaking with. “What’d he say?”

Eyes not leaving Bucky’s, Natalia sits up straight with her arms folded over his chest. “Speaks Russian. He said he’d teach you, Sam.” 

Sam’s bemused gaze flicks back up to Bucky, his expression turning both doubtful and even a tad scornful. 

“I suppose those lessons will cost a lot more than two tours of New York.”

That comment earns him a blush from Bucky and a round of laughter from his friends. Even Steve snickers, but it’s with a twinkle in those sky blue eyes and a warm grin. He pats Sam on the back and jostles him a bit. 

“I dunno, Sam,” Steve says. “This kid might not be so bad.”

Another smile touches Bucky’s mouth. “May I speak with you?”

“Yeah.” Steve sits back down. “Shoot.” 

“Oh. Um.” Bucky wrings his hands. “Privately?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes, of course.” He shakes his head and stands again, taking the book he'd been drawing in with him. Steve gestures him ahead. “After you.”

Right before Bucky turns, he sees Steve glance over his shoulder and shrugs to his friends, likely assuring them he’s just as confused as they are. Bucky says nothing as Steve follows him up to the deck. But Bucky doesn’t stop there. Instead, he brings Steve up to the First Class deck. He doesn’t know why he does this. It just feels normal to go back to his part of the ship.

There, he and Steve walk side-by-side. They pass people reading and talking in steamer chairs, some of whom glance curiously at the mismatched couple. Steve looks out of place in his rough clothes. Bucky suspects he’s uncomfortable here. This isn’t Steve’s world. The impeccable fashion. The haughty laughter. The luxury.

They both move awkwardly, for different reasons. Steve, a fish out of water. Bucky playing host to a fish in the sky. 

“It’s a lovely day,” Bucky says after several minutes of grueling silence, “isn’t it?”

The side of Steve’s mouth quirks up as though amused by the question. He nods and, still with that half-grin on his face, shifts his gaze to Bucky.

“It is,” he agrees. “We’ve been lucky, I suppose. It’s been nice ever since we left England.”

“Yes, it has.” 

They fall silent again. This time, Bucky’s determined to break it quickly. He clears his throat and glances at Steve.

“So, where are you from, Mr. Rogers?”

“Steve,” he corrects. “Well, Ireland, originally.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Mama moved us to the States after my dad died. I was only five at the time, so I got used to things pretty quickly. For me, it was an adventure. Moving to a faraway land, starting all over again.”

The way Steve speaks about his move to another country – even if it happened at such a young age – sounds simply extraordinary. Bucky is immediately envious. 

“Where did you move to?” Bucky asks. “From Ireland, I mean.”

“Well, we first settled in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Bucky holds in a laugh. There’s really nothing amusing about an Irish family dumping in one of the Irish slums of Manhattan. It’s simply the way things are. He doesn’t mean to laugh at all, in fact, it’s terribly rude of him to do so, and Steve, by his pause, must have heard him. The tips of Bucky’s ears burn red. 

“Something funny?” Steve asks.

Stomach twists, Bucky shakes his head. 

“No. No, nothing.” 

“Do you know New York?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I grew up in the Upper East Side by the park.” When Steve continues to look at him as though he knows now _exactly_ what’s made him laugh, Bucky nibbles on his lip and flaps his mouth a few times to get out some sort of explanation that doesn’t make him appear as snobbish as the rest of the people up here staring at them. Coming up with nothing, Bucky sighs. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I…” He hangs his head. “I’m sorry. That was awfully rude, forgive me, Mr. Rogers.” 

Forgiveness doesn’t feel that hard to earn when Steve bumps his shoulder with his own. The action is playful and accompanied by Steve’s soft chuckle. Bucky bites back a smile. This is the first time he can remember being jostled in such a manner. Similar to the way Steve had done with Sam earlier. 

“From there,” Steve continues without further comment on Bucky’s slip of laughter, “we moved to Brooklyn and stayed there until she died five years ago.”

Bucky’s insides freeze. He just never expected to hear that Steve’s mother died. Which means that he no longer has either of his parents. Something Bucky can almost relate to. True, his mother is still living, but she’s no longer the woman who raised him.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky murmurs. “How…how did she die? If I might ask.”

Steve nods. “She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit. Couldn’t shake it.”

“Were you close?” Bucky asks. “With your mother, I mean?”

“Oh, Mama was the best person I ever knew.” The affection Steve uses when speaking about her is unparalleled. It’s a beautiful thing, really, and Bucky can’t help the envy that sneaks up on him. “She taught me everything that matters to me.”

Tiny grin on his face, Bucky looks at him and asks, “Which are?”

“To look out for the little guy.” Steve bobs his head slightly. “See, I was a sick kid. Doctors didn’t think I’d make it past infancy. Told Mama it’d be best to just put me away. But Mama was havin’ nothin’ to do with that. She just told ‘em to give her her son and from the first second of my life she was takin’ good care of me. Never let me give up.” Steve chuckles and says, with a very well executed brogue accent, “‘No matter how many times life knocks ya on yer ass, Steven,’ she’d say. ‘Ya _always_ be gettin’ back to yer feet. I won’t be havin’ no quitter as a son, no siree.’” A fond smile twitches the corners of Steve’s mouth. “So I learned how to take care of myself. Keep myself healthy. She taught me to be passionate about life no matter what. That’s why I can’t ever bring myself to back down or run away. Don’t feel right. I mean, if I start running, I’ll never stop.” 

No wonder Steve wouldn’t leave last night when he found Bucky hanging off the back of a ship. It’s just who he is. Inside and out. Bucky has a feeling he really might have jumped in after him. 

“My father passed away last winter,” Bucky says very lowly. “Sudden heart failure.”

They’re still walking around the deck – they’ve, in fact, walked quite a distance together – and while Steve doesn’t stop Bucky, he lays his hand gently over his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he replies. “Were you close?”

Bucky nods. “Sometimes, it felt like he was the only one who ever understood me.”

“And your mother?” Steve asks. “Do you not get along with her or has she also–”

“No, no. She’s still very much alive.” Bucky sighs. “We used to be. Close. Not the same as me and my father, but she was always there for me. I remember one time, we’d gone for a walk in the park and I spotted a man riding this beautiful brown Saddlebred and I ran ahead to get a better look but then I couldn’t find my mother and I started to cry. It was only for a moment or two, but it felt so long and I didn’t think I’d ever find my way home, and then someone took my hand and I looked up and it was Mother. She smiled at me and said, ‘Don’t worry, my love, I’ll never let you stay lost.’”

The memory hangs in the air all around Bucky. Just a moment in time when his mother had assured him she’d always be there for him. That, with her in his life, he’d never be lost. Nowadays, all Bucky can feel is lost. And this time, there’s no one to take his hand to bring him back home. 

“Things changed after Father died,” Bucky says, somewhat to himself but also to Steve. “She sent my sister to boarding school and…” And is forcing Bucky to marry Alexander Pierce. “So, Mr. Rogers, what did you do after your mother died?”

“Steve,” he says first, and it takes a moment for Bucky to realize he means for him to call Steve, not Mr. Rogers, same as he’d done earlier. “Well, I’ve pretty much been on my own since I was fifteen and I have no brothers or sisters or any kin in the country so I lit on outta there to make my mark on the world. I guess you can call me a tumbleweed blowin’ in the wind. But after last summer, which I’d spent back in New York, I decided to pack it up and see Ireland again.” 

Steve’s life, while bruised with loss and personal pain, sounds remarkable. To have the courage to simply pick up and leave everything behind to start on his own is sensational. Bucky envies him so. 

“So, Bucky…” Steve says after a few minutes of silence. “We’ve walked about a mile around this boat deck and chewed over how great the weather’s been and how I grew up, but I reckon that’s not why you came to talk to me, is it?”

Eyes dropping to his feet – a habit that he’s been told often a gentleman needs to break – Bucky picks a bit at his fingers. After an awkward pause, he clears his throat. 

“Mr. Rogers–”

“Steve.”

Bucky glances at him and nods. “Steve. Steve, I…I feel like such a fool. It took me all day to work up the nerve to come see you.”

“And here you are.”

“Here I am. Um. I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back but…for your discretion after the fact.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bucky watches him closely. Looks for signs of pity or discontentment like some of those steerage passengers clearly had toward him. When he can’t seem to find any, Bucky shakes his head. Steve is an awfully good liar.

“Look, I know what you must be thinking,” Bucky says. “Poor little rich boy. What does _he_ know about misery and–”

“No,” Steve interrupts. Stops walking as well and leans back against the railing, one foot propped on the lower rung. “No, that’s not what I was thinking. What I was thinking was what could’ve happened to this poor boy to make him think there was no way out?”

“Well, I just…it’s…” A tremble rolls down Bucky’s spine. The next few breaths collide together. “I don’t…it wasn’t just one thing, it was _everything_. It was…it was my _whole_ world and the people in it. And I’m just _trapped_ in it and the inertia of my life plunging ahead, and me, _powerless_ to stop it.” All the words start coming out in a rush now. “I just had to get away…I just had to run and run and run and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship because even the _Titanic_ wasn't big enough. Not enough to get away from _them_. And before I'd really thought about it, I was over the rail. I was so _furious_ and I thought, ‘I'll show them! They'll be sorry!’”

“Mhm.” Steve nods. “They’ll be sorry all right. Course, you’d be dead so it’s not like you could enjoy it.”

Head hanging, Bucky sighs and smothers his face in his palms. If only he could disappear. Or turn back time and make a slight albeit important change.

“I’m an utter fool.”

“Not a fool,” Steve says. “Confused and scared, maybe, but not a fool.” Before Bucky can decide whether or not he should be offended, Steve asks, “Is that penguin one of them?”

“That peng…oh. Alex.” Bucky nods and holds up his left ring finger to show Steve the gem on it. “He _is_ them.” 

“Wow!” Steve exclaims. “Look at that thing. You’d’ve gone straight to the bottom.”

They laugh together. A passing steward scowls at Steve, who clearly stands out from the rest of the First Class passengers, but Bucky just glares him away.

“So, you feel like you’re stuck on a train that you can’t get off of cause you’re marrying this fella?”

“Yes! Yes, exactly! I just…” Bucky sighs, his eyes falling closed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, just don’t marry him.”

Eye popping open again, Bucky chuckles darkly and without any trace of humor. Looking out to the horizon, he shakes his head. 

“If only it were that simple.” 

“It _is_ that simple,” Steve says. “Don’t get married.”

“No, it…” Bucky grits his teeth, annoyed by Steve’s nonchalance and assumptions. “It really isn’t. Five hundred invitations have already gone out. All of Philadelphia's society will be there.” 

“Philadelphia?” Steve questions. “I thought you said you were from New York.”

“ _I_ am. New York’s society will be there, too, but Alex’s father runs the steel industry in Philadelphia. So, Philadelphia it is. Which is why I just feel as though I’m standing in a crowded room _screaming_ and no one even looks up.” 

“Do you love him?”

Bucky’s heart squeezes at the question. It’s a simple one. Logical, of course. But there’s only one appropriate answer and it sits like lead upon his tongue. 

“Excuse me?” he replies, insulted at Steve’s nerve to make him think on such a thing. 

Steve, however, obviously sees no problem with his inquiry. He simply shrugs and repeats it. Maybe thinks Bucky hasn’t heard him correctly. 

“Do you love him?”

The words lodge in his throat. Refuse to come out or retreat. So he pivots. Throws his irritation back at him. 

“That’s entirely inappropriate,” he snaps. “You’re being very rude.”

That sees Steve chuckling as if Bucky’s made a joke. “It’s a simple question, isn’t it? Do you love the guy or not?”

“This is _not_ suitable conversation,” Bucky grunts. “You shouldn’t be asking me such things.”

“Why can’t you answer the question?”

Laughter of his own gets caught in his throat. Just as nervous as the rest of his body. The floor beneath him is abruptly unsteady. He may try to blame the ship for his sudden balance troubles, but it truly has nothing to do with the ocean.

“This is absurd.” Bucky spins in a circle. Almost leaving but instead staying and turning back to Steve once more. “We are _not_ talking about this. You don’t know me and I don’t know _you_ and we’re not talking about this.”

A smile touches the corner of Steve’s mouth. He leans casually back against the railing and shrugs a shoulder. 

“So you’ve said.” 

Face hot and stomach pulsing, Bucky scoffs and curls his hands into two tight fists. Thumb tucked firmly within his fingers. 

“ _You_ are unbelievably _rude_ ,” he accuses between his teeth. “ _And_ uncouth and presumptuous and…and…” Bucky’s run out of things to yell at him. “And _I’m_ leaving now. Steve–er.” No. No, he’s not friends with this man and will not lower himself to such a state. “ _Mr_. Rogers.” Bucky holds his hand out to shake as a good gentleman was brought up to do. “I sought you out to thank you and I _have_ thanked you–”

“And you’ve insulted me.”

There’s still a grin on Steve’s lips and they’re still shaking hands and Bucky’s not entirely sure what to say to that other than, “Well…well, you… _you_ deserved it.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They’re still shaking hands. Steve’s still grinning. Bucky huffs some more without releasing his tight grip on Steve’s hand. 

“If you’re leaving,” Steve says, “I’m gonna need my hand back.”

Bucky growls, most undignified, but this man truly brings out the worst in him. He yanks his hand back and turns to march away. Finds himself stuck in his spot, once again spinning back to Steve.

“You are so _annoying_.”

To that, Steve chuckles again. This man clearly has no manners. And anyway, why should Bucky be the one to leave? He’s a First Class passenger. Not Steve. 

“Wait a minute.” He jabs a finger in Steve’s direction and gives him the most arrogant smirk he can manage. “I don’t have to leave; this is _my_ part of the ship. _You_ leave.”

Steve barks another laugh and shakes his head, reaching up above him to wrap his hand upon one of the tight lines stretched above them.

“Well, well, well,” he remarks, “ _now_ who’s being rude?” 

“That’s not…” Bucky shakes his head, his face growing hot. “I didn’t…” He huffs and glances down at the leatherbound book Steve’s been carrying around with him. Worn down and torn at the corners. “So what is this dumb thing you have there?”

Not waiting for a reply, Bucky snatches the thing right out of Steve’s hands and opens it. What he sees inside catches him by surprise. While he suspected that Steve had been drawing with the little girl down in steerage, he had expected some doodling, not the beautiful renderings inside the sketchbook.

“So what are you?” he asks. “Some kind of artist or something?”

“Or something, I suppose,” Steve answers. “I’d hardly call myself an artist. I just seem to spew ‘em out.”

“But these…” Bucky turns the page and finds himself so drawn to Steve’s art that he barely even has time to realize that he’s sat on one of the wooden deck chairs. “These are very good.” Steve, while Bucky’s completely engrossed in the world Steve’s created on these pages, helps himself to the seat next to him. Each drawing is an expressive bit of humanity: an old woman's hands, a sleeping man, a woman breastfeeding, a father and daughter – the very ones Bucky saw earlier – at the rail. Their faces are luminous and alive. Steve’s book is a celebration of the human condition. “Steve, this is exquisite work.”

As Bucky lifts one piece of paper, turning the next to see another drawing, some of the loose sketches fall out and are taken by the wind. Steve scrambles after them, catching two, but the rest are gone, over the rail.

“Oh, no!” Bucky cries. “Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry. Truly, I am.” 

“Nah, they ain’t worth a damn.” Steve tucks the two pages he saved back under the rest in his book. “Besides, they didn’t think too highly of them in ol’ Paree.” 

“Paris?” Bucky repeats, surprised that Steve’s even been there. “You do get around. For a poor…” Catching himself before he fully says the horrible thought that’s run through his mind, Bucky glances up at Steve, the words still on his lips. “I mean…oh. Well, a man of…of limited means.” 

But Steve only laughs and says, “Go ‘head, a poor guy, you can say it.”

“Well, yes, but…” Instead of trying to fix his blunder, Bucky turns his attention back to Steve’s sketchbook. The next series of sketches make him blush. “Well, well.” 

He’s come upon a series of nudes. Both women and men. Bucky is transfixed by the languid beauty Steve has created. His nudes are soulful and real, with expressive hands and eyes. They feel more like portraits than studies of the human form. Almost uncomfortably intimate. Some feel as though they’re looking right at Bucky while he spies upon a secret, personal moment. When some other passengers stroll by, Bucky blushes again, raising the book away from their sight. 

“And, um.” Bucky tries to be very adult here and probably comes off miserably immature. “These were drawn from…real life?”

The smirk on Steve’s face confirms Bucky’s suspicions that his attempts at maturity fall very short. Still, Steve looks back at his drawing and nods.

“Yeah, well, that’s one of the great things about Paris. Lots of people willing to take their clothes off.”

Bucky studies one drawing, in particular, the girl posed half in sunlight, half in shadow. Her hands lie at her chin, one furled and one open like a flower, relaxed and graceful. Jealousy scatters across Bucky’s chest, though, he immediately feels foolish for the emotion. An emotion that he’s no right to, no reason to have. 

“You like this woman,” Bucky points out. “You’ve used her many times.”

“She had beautiful hands,” Steve answers, running a finger over the curves of the hands in the sketch. “You see?”

“Mm.” The jealousy rushes through him again. Bucky shakes it away with a smile. “I think you had a love affair with her.”

This time, it’s Steve who blushes, his entire face burning scarlet. He releases a shaky laugh as he shakes his head.

“No, no, no,” he insists. “Just with her hands, I swear.” When Bucky’s eyebrows lift, Steve bursts out laughing, burying his face in his palm. “I promise! She just had beautiful hands! Look, look.” Steve pulls out one of the drawings that had almost been lost to the wind. “See? You can tell a whole story with someone’s hands.” 

What he shows Bucky is a whole page of this woman’s hands. Bucky knows they’re hers by the freckles along the backs of them. Each image he’s drawn if of them doing different things. In one, she’s holding a wine glass. The glass is damaged, though, a few chips along the top with a lipstick stain across the rim. In another, a baby’s hand fits around her thumb, while she rests her hand in that of a man’s. Another has her cupping the blossom of a rose and Steve’s colored the petals in red.

Looking at them and the others on the page, Bucky understands what Steve means. This woman’s hands tell a story. She’s a working girl, Bucky thinks. Her fingernails are polished but chipped, and in another drawing, she had lipstick slightly smeared at the corner of her lips. Any high-class, proper woman wouldn’t adorn makeup or nail coloring since a natural appearance is considered more chaste and pure, something Bucky learned very well after Mother chastised Rebecca for asking if she could wear lipstick to a gala hosted by the Osborn family. 

“What would young Harry Osborn think of you,” she had said even though Rebecca hadn’t, and still hasn't been presented to society yet, “if you walk in with your lips looking like the first sin?”

The woman in Steve’s drawing, though the world would have Bucky believe her to be unwomanly and rough and dirty, is exactly the opposite of that. She’s just as feminine as any proper woman here in First Class and gentle enough to hold a flower and maybe she’s not as clean as someone with access to indoor plumbing but she’s far from dirty. 

“Was this woman a…you know…a…?”

“A prostitute?” Steve asks, though he clearly needs no clarification. “And very proud of it. She worked in one of the best brothels in Paris and was saving up money so she could send her daughter to school.” 

“Oh. Oh, that’s…” Bucky tries to search for the correct way to put this. “Very noble of her.” When Steve barks something of a laugh, Bucky nibbles at his lip. “Is that the wrong thing to say?”

Steve doesn’t exactly answer that. Instead, he says, “She had a great sense of humor. Oh, and this woman.” He pulls out the page beneath this one and lays it on top. A woman, not yet elderly but youth faded from her looks, sits at a bar with a full wine glass in front of her. Dressed in a fur coat and a feathered taffeta hat over a head of short curls, her face is careworn, a small mole on her left cheek. “She used to sit at this bar every night wearing every piece of jewelry she owned just waiting for her long-lost love. I called her Madame Bijoux. See how her clothes are all moth-eaten?”

Bucky looks over the drawing. It’s stunning, really. Simply beautiful. Yet the story behind it fills him with a great sadness. Bucky hopes that one day, this Madame Bijoux finds whatever it is she’s looking for.

“You have a gift, Steve,” he says, looking up from the drawing. “You really do. You see the world. You see people. Not just what’s on the outside, but who they are on the inside.”

Something of a smile plays on Steve’s mouth. He leans forward, closer to Bucky, with his arms resting over his knees. And there it is again. That piercing look of his. The one that he gave to Bucky last night. The same one that made Bucky feel as though his entire universe was finally full. 

"I see you."

Rather than giving Steve any reason to believe he can have such an impact on him with a simple look, Bucky straightens his shoulders more and tilts his chin up. He grins.

“…And?”

Steve, very serious all of a sudden, breathes out softly. He never takes his eyes off of Bucky, as though he’s really, truly seeing him. Just like one of his drawings.

“You wouldn’t’ve jumped.” 

Bucky, who doesn’t have the courage to keep looking back at Steve, drops his gaze to his feet and fiddles with his fingers. He doesn’t know how to respond to that so he simply says nothing at all. Which, honestly, is something he should probably get used to. But instead of saying something critical and belittling to him, Steve pats his thigh.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, softly. “And not just for my sake. Though, I’d’ve jumped after you. Really.”

His voice, so sweet and tender, tugs at Bucky’s heartstrings. He doesn’t understand it, or why it makes him warm and fuzzy inside. 

“Why?” Bucky asks, his own voice, much to his embarrassment, cracking. “Why would you do that?”

“I told you last night,” he replies, “I’m involved now and I’m with ya to the end of the line. _You_ jump… _I_ jump.”

There’s so much conviction in Steve’s voice when he says this. Bucky thought before that Steve was a good liar. He’s not so sure he believes that any longer. 

“I…” Bucky’s voice trembles again. “I believe you.” 

Steve smiles at him as though touched by that belief in him. They sit there silently for a few moments until Bucky stands and hands Steve his sketchbook back. When he starts to walk away, and Steve doesn’t follow, Bucky gestures for him to come along.

“Come on, Mr. Rogers,” Bucky says, then corrects himself before Steve can. “Steve, I mean. You can come with me.”

Chuckling, Steve rises to his feet and, with his sketchbook tucked against his hip, shoves his free hand into his pocket. Just one more thing that makes Steve stand out, but Bucky’s not going to say anything. Steve appears comfortable, and for one second, Bucky considers doing the same. 

He refrains. 

“Why, thank you, Mr. Barnes,” he replies when he reaches him. “I’m honored.” 

Bucky, flushing, ducks his head down as they continue their stroll across the deck, passing people lounging on deck chairs in the slanting late-afternoon sun. Stewards walk around with silver trays, offering passengers tea or hot-cocoa. 

As they walk, Bucky asks Steve more about himself. Through their conversation, Bucky learns that Steve’s favorite dessert is Apple Cake, made with crab apples specifically, and served with custard. He loves a good Guinness but because they sometimes cost up to four pennies a pint, he is perfectly content with a pale ale which he says costs no more than two pennies, usually. Bucky shares with him his love for reading and his fascination with art. 

“I’ve never really been a fan,” Steve is saying when they’ve reached a topic about types of art. “Just feels like it has no heart.” Steve’s opinion of this particular type of art has been mostly negative.

“I don’t know,” Bucky replies. “I like some of it.”

“Really?”

Bucky chuckles. “Yes!”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Well, see, Paris for me was more about living on the street and just…trying to capture that life and put it down on paper. You know what I mean?”

Awed and filled with just such wonder for Steve’s way of life, Bucky can only smile and, at a loss for words, sigh through it. Steve doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. He just… _lives_.

“You know,” Bucky says, boyish and excited, “my dream has always been to just…to run away and become an artist. I don’t know what kind, but to just be allowed to create and bring beauty to the world. Just…living in a garret. Poor. Poor and _free_.” 

Laughing, Steve shakes his head at him. “Nah, you’d never last two days.”

Eyebrows knit, Bucky glances up at him. “Pardon me?”

“There’s no indoor plumbing or heat, and they hardly ever serve caviar to us working-class bums.” 

“Excuse me, but I happen to _hate_ caviar. I don’t even know why I eat it; I’ve _never_ cared for the stuff.” Bucky huffs and wags a finger in Steve’s face. “And I hate people telling me what dreams _I_ should and shouldn’t have and I’m sick and tired of people dismissing them with a chuckle and a pat on the head.”

Steve gives him a smile. He doesn’t look amused, but rather, impressed by Bucky’s bold desire to stand up for himself. In fact, tucked in the corners of that smile is an apology.

“Y-you’re right,” Steve says with a nod and a timid lick of his lip. “I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

Thrilled that Steve would apologize for insulting him, and mean it, and even appear guilty because of what he’s said, Bucky holds in a grin of his own. He’s forgotten how enjoyable a conversation could be. That they don’t all need to end with him feeling small and insignificant. 

“Well, all right then.” Bucky flings his arms up and speaks more of his mind. “Everybody just expects me to be this delicate little flower which I’m _not_. I’m sturdy! I’m strong as a horse, I am! I’m here on God’s green earth to _do_ something, not just sit around as some sparkly decoration.” He holds his hands up, muscles tight. “You see _these_ hands?” Steve’s eyes flick down to them. “They’re _meant_ for something. For work. For–”

One of the stewards approaches them, interrupting Bucky’s rant by first holding his silver tray out to him.

“Care for something, sir?” he asks, making this offer to Bucky and only Bucky. “Would you like some tea or sweets?”

Astonished and completely exhausted by the never-ending parade of people who refuse to let him do things on his own, Bucky nearly growls.

“No!” he exclaims. “No, I do not! Ugh!”

From next to him, Steve lets loose a wild laugh and the steward, a bit dumbfounded by Bucky’s reaction, hurries away and quickly makes his offer to someone else.

“There’s something _in_ me, Steve,” Bucky says. “I can _feel_ it. I don’t know what it is, whether I should be an artist or a writer…or, I don’t know. Or…or…a dancer!” Bucky throws his arms out to the side and leaps forward, a graceful move just as he learned when he was younger. “Like Isadora Duncan!” Bucky pirouettes on his toe. “Oh, I do admire her, so. Her wild spirit, her untamed view of everything. She isn’t _afraid_ to be herself and speaks on behalf of those who can’t…” 

Something ahead of them catches Bucky’s eyes. It’s the same man who had been cranking his cinematograph camera while preparing to board the ship. His wife is with him again, posed stiffly against the rails. Excited, Bucky’s face lights up as he grabs hold of Steve’s hand and tugs him over there.

“Or a moving picture actor!”

“You’re sad! Sad, sad, sad!” the man is saying to his wife. “You’ve left your lover ashore. Try to be sadder, darling. You may never see him again.”

When Bucky shoots into the shot and strikes a theatrical pose at the rail next to her, she bursts out laughing. Since Steve, amused smile on his face and sketchbook held against his chest, has stopped by the camera, Bucky pulls him into the picture and makes him pose next to him. The cameraman grins and shouts out poses for them to make, gesturing as he does.

Bucky leans tragically against the rail with his hand dramatically flung to his forehead. Steve lies across one of the deck chairs while Bucky pretends to serve him. They both fail at making this seem realistic and dissolve into giggles. Steve drops to his knees and pretends to plead with Bucky while Bucky, standing, turns his head in bored disdain. 

At some point, Bucky ends up behind the camera, cranking it while Steve and the man, Marvin his name is, have a shoot-out with their fingers. Mary, Marvin’s wife, tries to act horrified by it. Steve wins and leers into the camera lens, twirling an air mustache like some evil mastermind. 

They’re still laughing when Marvin and Mary excuse themselves, taking the camera with them. Painted with orange light, Bucky and Steve lean on the A-deck rail aft, shoulder to shoulder. The ship's lights come on behind them. It’s a magical moment, really. Perfect. Bucky won’t have many of these left so he wants to make this one last. Enjoy it as best he can.

“So then what, Steve?” he asks. “When you first left New York, where did you head off to?”

Steve smiles at him. “Well, let’s see. I’ve been to thirty of the forty-eight states starting with Jersey. Rode the trolley from Camden to Clementon Park. From there, I made my way down to Florida and was in Pensacola when the streetcar operators went on strike…”

Steve goes on to tell him about his trip to Louisiana and the Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans, and Bucky giggles when he tells him about the female masqueraders exposing their breasts. He’s ridden a mule through the Grand Canyon and sailed on a barge along the Mississippi River and worked as a logger in Montana and California. 

“Then logging got to be too much like work, so I headed to Monterey Bay. That place is something swell, lemme tell ya. I saw seals and otters and dolphins. Even whales. I started to head back east that winter and made it home just in time for summer. Spent a lot of time at Coney Island when I got back. They got that rollercoaster there, Drop the Dip. You know that’s the first rollercoaster to have lap bars?” No, Bucky didn’t know that, but he simply smiles, fascinated by Steve’s stories, and Steve goes on. “I sketched portraits there for ten cents a piece.”

“A whole ten cents?” Bucky teases.

“Yeah,” Steve says, clearly not seeing the humor Bucky does. Or simply ignoring it. “It was great money. I could make a dollar a day, sometimes. But only in summer. When it got cold, I decided to ship off to see my homeland and figured I’d stop in Paris to see what the real artists were doing.”

Bucky watches the dusk sky, longing for the freedoms that Steve's had and torn between knowing none of it had been easy and wishing he could just do it anyway. 

“Why can't I be like you, Steve? Just head out for the horizon whenever I feel like it.” He returns his gaze to Steve who looks at him fondly. “Say we’ll go there someday. Me and you. To Coney Island.” Oh, how his mother would _love_ that. Bucky would probably spend the next year locked in a room. “Even if we only ever talk about it.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “No, we’ll _do_ it. We’ll drink cheap beer and ride the rollercoaster till we throw up and we’ll smoke. But none of those fancy cigarettes, I mean nice, hand-rolled ones.”

“You mean…” Bucky mimics with his fingers. “Making them ourselves?”

“That’s right.”

“Will you…show me how?”

“Sure, if you’d like.”

Smile growing wider, Bucky chuckles and nods. Mostly to himself but also for Steve to see he likes the idea.

“I think I would like that. Okay, Steve, teach me to roll a cigarette like a _man_.”

Steve laughs at this and adds, “And chew tobacco like a man.” 

“And…” Bucky grins as he thinks of another. “And _punch_ like a man.”

“What, they didn’t teach you that in finishing school?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I should say not.”

Taking hold of Bucky’s wrist, nothing like Alex, not possessive or firm, Steve starts to steer him to a wider part of the deck. 

“Come on then, I’ll show you.”

“What?” Aghast at the suggestion, Bucky gasps and barely even thinks that he could easily wiggle away from Steve instead of allowing himself to be towed along. “No, I couldn’t possibly, Steve…Steve!”

“Okay, here.” Steve releases his wrist and stands right in front of him. “Make a fist.”

First glancing around to make sure they’re not being watched, Bucky relents and holds up two loosely made fists. Steve immediately corrects this, telling him that if he tries to punch someone with his thumb tucked beneath his fingers, he’ll only wind up with a broken thumb. 

“Keep your wrists tight and locked,” he tells him before holding his palms out to him. “Okay, give it your best shot.” 

Bucky, chewing on his lip, closes his eyes and throws his left fist out in front of him, aiming for Steve’s right hand. He hits the bottom of his palm, or rather, skims it with his knuckles. 

“Oh, c’mon!” Steve laughs. “That was pathetic, you can do better than that. Here, lemme show you.”

This time, Steve positions Bucky with his palms open and shows him what to do. To aim across, right fist going left and left going right, and to swing with his whole body. 

“Okay,” Steve says after he’s demonstrated a few times. “Now you go.”

Once again, Bucky throws his left fist, in a punch Steve says is called a jab. He makes contact with Steve’s right palm, nearly square in the middle. Steve nods excitedly.

“That was better. But you said you’re as strong as a horse. Try it again. And this time, _mean_ it.”

“Mean it,” Bucky repeats and tries again, this time hitting Steve’s hand with significant impact. Only when Bucky throws his punch, he trips over his feet and lands in Steve’s arms, a barrel of laughter when he’s caught.

“That was great!” Steve says, laughing. “Except the part where you tripped.” He helps steady Bucky again. “Okay, I can help with that. You gotta plant your feet but lift slightly on your toes on your back foot like this.”

Fists still raised, Bucky looks down to see and then mimics the position. When Steve approves, Bucky looks back up again and blanches, dropping his arms to the side and straightening up again. Catching the look on his face, Steve glances over his shoulder. Winifred, the Countess, and Peggy have been watching them exchange punches. Bucky instantly composes himself, reverting back to the prim and proper gentleman he’s supposed to be. 

“Mother,” he says, quickly trying to bring attention away from the fact that he was just being taught how to box. “May I introduce Steve Rogers.”

Winifred’s eyes roam over Steve’s body with disdain. There’s a trail of sweat slipping down Steve’s face. He probably doesn’t even realize. Peggy smiles at the pair of them.

“Charmed,” Winifred replies to Bucky’s introduction. “I’m sure.”

As though suddenly being alerted to his disheveled state, Steve quickly wipes that sweat away from his forehead and cards fingers through his hair and smiles. The others are gracious and curious about the man who saved Bucky’s life, greeting him with smiles and, at the very least, comments about his bravery, but his mother looks at him like an insect. A dangerous insect that can easily poison and infect Bucky with the right bite. An insect like Steve, in Winifred’s not-so-humble opinion, needed to be squashed, and quickly. 

“Well, Steve,” Peggy says. “It sounds like you’re a good man to have around in a sticky spot–” They all jump when a bugler sounds the meal call right behind them. “Why do they insist on always announcing supper like a damn cavalry charge?”

Bucky forces a laugh – Peggy’s comment is humorous, but having been caught in such a state with Steve by his mother has him skirting along every nerve in his body. He quickly loops his arm with Winifred.

“Shall we go dress then, Mother?” He’s already starting to leave with her and the Countess. Over his shoulder, he says to Steve, “See you at supper, Mr. Rogers.” 

Steve smiles in response and waves, and Bucky feels very alone as he leaves him there with Peggy, even with his mother right at his side.

~~~

As Bucky leaves with his mother, Steve can hear her berate him for being out in the sun without having on a hat. Steve leans a bit over the rail to get a better view of Bucky leaving. Bucky. The First Class boy who’s so remarkably different than Steve could have ever imagined. 

When Bucky came down to the Third Class general room, Steve hadn’t expected he’d come to thank him for last night. He hadn’t expected any more gratitude than what he received last night. An invitation. A simple wave. A couple of cigarettes. What he had expected, maybe, was a spoiled brat, possibly coming to him to demand his silence. Bucky may be a spoiled brat in some ways, but he’s also so wonderfully different. 

He carries no arrogance like the others do. He laughs with his whole body instead of keeping it bottled up inside of him. He plays. He wants to be so much more than what the world is allowing him to be. There’s a fire burning deep down inside of him, trying so hard to grow hotter and burn brighter. All it needs is the chance. 

“Son?” The woman who’s stayed behind, who’d introduced herself as Peggy, is saying something. Steve is too preoccupied to realize it’s to him. “Hey, sonny?”

Once Steve gives her his attention, he realizes that she’s actually trying to ask him something. Peggy, he already figures, is a bit different than the rest of her people. More lighthearted. Proof by the fact that she’d been kind enough to not only point out to Steve that he had sweat dripping down his face but also finding humor in it. 

“Do you have the slightest idea what you’re about to do?”

That's the thing Steve’s actually been real nervous about ever since Bucky and him started talking. He hadn’t been nervous. Steve doesn’t really care about what those pompous, blowhards have to think or say about him. Now that he’s gotten to know Bucky, gotten to see that fabulous light inside of him, Steve doesn’t want to embarrass him. Or rather, he doesn’t want to cause any problems for him. 

“No,” he admits with a light chuckle. “Not really.” 

“Well, you're about to go into the snakepit. I hope you're ready. What are you planning to wear?”

Steve looks down at his clothes. His ratty shirt. The stains at the bottom of his trousers. Those worn boots. He hasn’t thought about how he’ll stand out like a weed among roses tonight. He looks back to Peggy. Shrugs. 

“Uh-huh.” She nods and tugs slightly on the sleeve of Steve’s shirt. “That’s what I figured. Come on, then. Can’t send you to the wolves without armor.” 

The reason why Peggy’s so different than the others becomes clear when Steve realizes she’s the infamous Peggy Carter. Not born into money but coming into it by luck. She knows the meaning of hard work. She appreciates what she has instead of taking it for granted. She hasn’t forgotten her roots.

Peggy Carter’s stateroom is simply stunning. Dark wood panellings. Elegant light fixtures. Big windows that let the evening sunset pour through. Men's suits and jackets and formal wear are strewn all over the place. Peggy’s little girl, Sharon, sits in the middle of the bed having a grand time as her mother fusses over Steve, having him try a shirt with these pants or this tie with those cufflinks. 

Steve is dressed at the moment, in everything but a jacket, and Peggy is tying the bowtie for him. Steve attempted to do it himself, even though he really had no idea how to tie it properly, and then, cheeks red, turned and gaped at Peggy helplessly. She’d only smiled and came back over to assist with it. 

“Don’t feel bad about it,” she tells him. “My husband still can’t tie one of these damn things after twenty years of trying.” Peggy straightens it and takes a step back to look him over. “There you go.”

She selects one of the few jackets that have been laid across the bed and hands it to him. As Steve takes it with him into the restroom, Peggy begins picking up the clothes on the bed, enlisting Sharon for some help. 

“I gotta buy most things is three sizes,” Peggy says. “Never know which my husband will feel more comfortable wearing.”

In the bathroom, slipping into the jacket, Steve chuckles. Once he’s fixed the jacket to fit around him properly – and it’s a pretty close fit between him and Peggy’s husband – he takes a look at his reflection. Steve barely even recognizes himself. 

His hair’s been styled back with some product called Pomade which makes it look a little darker and slick and gives it a slight shine. He’s washed, so the sweat is cleaned off his face and his hands are no longer stained from sketching earlier. The suit makes him look sharp and dapper. If he looked like this all the time, maybe he’d be someone worthy of standing at Bucky’s side. 

Still watching himself in the mirror, Steve frowns. He might as well be that little princess his mother told him stories about when he was younger. Sure, she had a fairy godmother that got her all dolled up to go to the ball, but at midnight, she lost it all. No matter how well Steve fits into these shoes, he has no glass slipper that will win him the heart of a prince. 

Silly notions anyway. He barely knows Bucky. Bucky’s engaged. To a man he clearly wants nothing to do with and who very obviously doesn’t care about him. Even if he wasn’t, he’s off-limits. Steve knows how the world works, and he’s certainly not a part of Bucky’s. 

Taking one last look at his reflection, Steve goes back to the bedroom. When he steps through the door, Peggy stops what she’s doing and smiles. 

“Why, Steve Rogers,” she says, “don’t you clean up like a shiny new penny. What do you think, Sharon?”

Cheeks flushing pink, Sharon hides a cute smile behind her mother’s dress before peeking out from it again. 

“You look pretty, Mr. Rogers.” 

Both Steve and Peggy laugh at her compliment – Steve’s cheeks flushing brighter than Sharon’s had – and within a few minutes, Steve finds himself walking toward the First Class Entrance. The sky is purple with a dot of orange melting into the water in the west. Classical music plays softly from somewhere inside. A few people who pass Steve along the way nod politely at him. Steve, who received looks of contempt and scorn earlier today, now fits among them in his dashing, borrowed suit.

When he reaches the entrance, he almost hesitates. Surely someone is going to figure out that he’s no business being here. But as he approaches, the steward at the door nods in his direction and opens it.

“Good evening, sir,” he greets. 

Steve, playing the role as smoothly as he can, nods back at him with a hint of disdain he’s used to receiving from the wealthy. He steps in and stumbles to a halt, breath taken away by the splendor spread out before him. Overhead is an enormous glass dome, with a crystal chandelier at its center. Sweeping down six stories is the First Class Grand Staircase, the epitome of the opulent naval architecture.

And the people. 

The women in their floor-length dresses, elaborate hairstyles, and abundant jewelry. The gentlemen in evening dress, standing with one hand at the small of the back, talking quietly. It’s all breathtaking. 

After the initial shock and awe melts away, Steve descends to A Deck, glancing around at the grandeur that First Class has to offer. The enormous Grand Staircase is splendid with several iron-and-gilt-bronze balustrades and wooden fixtures of things like pineapples and cherubs. At the first landing, Steve stops for just a moment to look at the magnificent clock, flanked by oak-carvings. 

Several men nod a perfunctory greeting. A few women give him cursory grins. He nods back, keeping it simple so he doesn’t stand out as much as he feels. He might as well be a spy sneaking into enemy territory. Steve wouldn’t cut it as a spy. Too much lying. Too much pretend. He’d much rather be a soldier. A man of action. 

When he reaches the Reception Area, Steve glances around to see if Bucky’s arrived yet. Since he doesn’t see him, he goes to stand next to one of the grand, oak columns. Arms crossed, Steve leans against it. Posture relaxed and somewhat slouched, another look around makes Steve realize that this position only makes him stand out even more in this place. He straightens and takes a good look at how the men are standing. Back straight. Shoulders squared. One arm tucked behind their back. Looks mighty uncomfortable, but Steve gives it a try. 

Just as he suspected, it is pretty uncomfortable. The man he’s been copying starts to head into the Dining Saloon, escorting a lady on his arm. As they pass, Steve takes note of how their arms are linked, and though there’s no one here next to him, he lifts his arm in the same fashion. 

Once the two of them descend into the next room, Steve turns around again, and coming down the staircase now is Alex. Mrs. Barnes, dripping in jewelry, is on his arm. Steve steps closer to greet them, even holding his hand out to Alex to shake, only to have both of them pass right by him, neither of the two recognizing him. 

_Well_ , Steve thinks _, at least I can pull off the look._ When he opens his mouth, however, it might be a completely different story. 

Alex nods at him, one gent to, who he thinks is another, before greeting the Countess that Steve’d been introduced to this afternoon. Rolling his fingers back in, Steve barely has time to be amused. Something catches his eye by the clock. Because following behind Alex and Mrs. Barnes, is Bucky, and he’s an absolute vision in black and red.

Unlike most of the gentlemen, he’s not sporting a simple black and white suit. His comes with a bold black and red paisley vest – a thick tie and handkerchief in the breast pocket to match – and the threaded borders around the lapel and buttons are also red. The suit is vibrant and playful, but the black and red combination doesn't take away from its grandeur and richness; in fact, it simply adds to it. 

Bucky is so beautiful that Steve just can’t take his eyes off him. He’s hypnotized by the dream coming toward him. As he approaches, Steve mimics that gentlemen’s stance again, keeping his hand behind his back. 

In front of Steve now, Bucky pauses, uncertainty passing across his face, and Steve takes a gentle hold of his hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the back of his fingers. Bucky flushes, beaming at him. He doesn’t take his eyes off Steve.

“I saw that in a nickelodeon once,” Steve says with a tiny laugh. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”

This makes them both laugh harder, Bucky’s face lighting up even more. Steve holds his arm out to him as he saw before. Still smiling, Bucky accepts the offer and comes down the few remaining steps. Now side-by-side, they look at each other and grin. Steve, sure he looks ridiculous doing so, lifts his chin up higher, keeping his nose pointed in the air. Bucky giggles and it sounds so adorably sweet.

Reaching Alex and Mrs. Barnes, Bucky extends his hand to give a little tug to the back of Alex’s jacket to get his attention.

“Darling,” he says as Alex, grinning at whatever the Countess has just said, turns. “Surely you remember Mr. Rogers.”

Caught off guard by the introduction, a laugh bursts from Alex’s chest. Next to him, Mrs. Barnes, who gave Steve quite the disapproving look when they met, meets his gaze with discontent now. 

“Rogers! I didn’t even recognize you.” Alex studies him more closely. “Just look at you. You can almost pass for a gentleman.”

Eyebrows lifting, Steve licks his teeth and holds back the scoff that sits in the back of his throat. 

“Almost,” he repeats. 

“Amazing,” Alex says and then loops his arm with Mrs. Barnes, who gives Steve one last, hard look, to make their way down to the Saloon. 

There’s an apology on Bucky’s face. In the way he tries to offer a smile. In the crease between his eyebrows. In the stiffening of his spine. But Steve gives him a smile of his own, assuring him there’s nothing to worry about. That had gone better than he expected. 

Still arm-in-arm, Steve escorts Bucky down to the Reception Room on D Deck. There, they stop just to the side of the staircase while Alex and Mrs. Barnes move further into the room to chat with some other people. Bucky leans in close to start pointing some notables out among the swirling throng of people. 

“That’s the Wakandan Royal Family,” he says, gesturing to the older black couple and their older children across the room. “They’re the richest people on the ship. That man standing with them…” He must mean the middle-aged white man. “Is Everett Ross, their liaison. They’re talking to Thor and Loki Odinson.” 

While Thor is broad-shouldered with golden locks of hair flowing to his shoulders and sun-kissed skin, and laughs at something the princess says. Loki, thin and lean with midnight hair tied in a neat braid behind his head and looks as though he hasn’t seen the sun in years, looks completely bored. Until his eyes move across the room and fall on Bucky. He perks up slightly when they do, lifting his hand in a little wave. 

Bucky returns the wave and then glances up to Steve. He says, “Thor is simply a sweetheart and I believe Loki and I feel the same about our crowd. Which is, of course, why Mother and Alex keep me from their company except when they wish to make a good impression.” 

Before Steve has a chance to say ‘except for you’, and means that, Bucky points to another pair of people. These two, a young man and young lady, are no older than Steve. The boy, in a light blue suit, has bright blond hair and piercing blue eyes. There’s light facial hair on his warm, ivory skin. The young woman, her evening gown a soft shade of scarlet, shares his eye and complexion. Her soft, brown hair falls in gentle waves down past her shoulders. 

“Those are the twins,” Bucky tells him. “Pietro and Wanda. Wanda had twin boys last year with her husband and looks better than ever.”

Bucky goes on to point out a married woman who’s his age that’s pregnant and holds her clutch purse over her belly to hide it. Apparently, married or not, it’s quite the scandal. He then pivots Steve to show him an impeccably dressed couple, telling him that the woman is the man’s mistress and his wife is at home with the children, of course. Bucky then names the men that Alex is engrossed in conversation with. 

As he does, Steve notices the way some of them gawk at Bucky. Alex looks to be being praised by his male counterparts. As though Bucky’s some prized show-horse that he owns and has taken out for display. He wonders if Bucky’s noticed the same thing. Surely he has. It’s very obvious. 

A very powerful urge to shield Bucky away from those predatory-like stares rushes through Steve fast and hard. To draw more attention to himself and away from Bucky, Steve touches the butterfly cufflink on Bucky’s jacket. 

“I like these,” he says. “They’re pretty. And so different than everyone else’s.”

A blush teases Bucky’s cheeks. “Thank you. Alex hates them.”

The fact that he’s still wearing them when he says that horrible man hates them makes Steve proud. It’s probably not an emotion he should be feeling. It might even be condescending though he hardly means it to be. But Bucky rebelling in his own way, however small that may be, it simply fantastic. 

“Care to escort a lady to dinner?”

Both Steve and Bucky turn to see Peggy approaching them from behind. Bucky likes Peggy. Steve can tell this instantly. He smiles with his whole face. Eyes twinkling. Cheeks lighting. That’s good. Good, that there’s someone in Bucky’s life that makes him shine like this. 

“Certainly,” Steve answers, not dropping Bucky’s arm, but rather extending his other so that Peggy will be on his other side. 

“Ain’t nothin’ to it, is there, Steve?” Peggy asks as they make their way into the Saloon. 

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “Just dress like a mortician and keep your nose up. Got it.” 

A pair of soft chuckling echo from both sides of him. Steve enjoys making Bucky laugh. He hopes he does it more often.

“Remember, the only thing they respect is money,” Peggy advises him. “So just act like you own a gold mine and you're in the club. Hey, Astor!”

They’ve just walked up to the married couple with the young wife who’s expecting. The two of them smile at all of them.

“Why, hello, Peggy,” Astor replies to her greeting. “Good to see you.” 

While Steve gets the feeling that most of the people here don’t respect Peggy – behind her back, anyway – these two seem perfectly content to be in her company. If they aren’t, they do a very good job of hiding it. 

“JJ, Madeline,” Bucky says, gesturing to Steve. “I’d like you to meet Steve Rogers.”

“How do you do?” Madeline holds her hand out to Steve, palm faced down and places it lightly in Steve’s since Bucky’s untwined their arms.

“Pleasure.”

JJ shakes Steve hand with a nice grip and a smile. “Hello, Steve. Are you of the Boston Rogers?”

“Uh–” Steve swallows roughly and quickly comes up with a response. “No, the Vinegar Hills Rogers, actually.” 

“Ah, yes,” he replies as though he’s heard of Steve’s family, which he most decidedly has not. After he answers, he looks quite puzzled. 

As Steve and Bucky enter and move across the room to their table, Steve is struck all over again at the beauty of First Class. 

The dining room is decorated in wooden paneling, painted white, and the floors are covered in blue linoleum tiles featuring an elaborate red and yellow pattern. The room’s portholes are elegantly concealed by glass windows, giving the impression that they’re actually about to eat onshore and not at sea. For even more atmosphere, the windows are lit from behind.

The place is like a ballroom at a palace, alive and lit by a constellation of chandeliers, full of exquisitely dressed people and beautiful music from the small orchestra in the corner.

Nerves bubble in Steve’s belly. He’d said to Sam, as they ran like god damn bastards to make it in time to board the ship, that they were practically royalty. Now that Steve basically finds himself in the company of royalty – in some cases, _actual_ royalty – he can only hope that he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. 

~~~

Steve Rogers looks remarkable in the suit he’s wearing. Completely charming and debonair. Bucky nearly took a tumble down the stairs when he spotted him standing there. His heart leaped to his throat when they locked eyes back at the Grand Staircase. It is, in fact, still there, and Bucky needs to keep himself from staring at the poor man with this ridiculous smile that won’t leave his face. Bucky wonders where he’s gotten the suit from. 

Steve must be so nervous. Bucky, honestly, cannot blame him. He’d thought of him earlier as a fish out of water. Now, he stands out more like a rose among weeds. 

He hasn’t faltered, though. Not once. Steve pulls it off flawlessly. The look. The attitude. The arrogance. In Steve’s case, however, it’s all an act. A costume he’s put on to fool everyone around them into thinking he belongs here when he’s actually so much more than them.

They all assume he’s one of them, nodding in his direction and greeting him politely when Bucky introduces him. A young captain of industry, perhaps. Or the heir to a railroad fortune. New money, obviously, but still a member of the club, and that’s what matters most. 

When Bucky looks at Steve, he sees so much more than the new, elegant suit he dons. There's so much more to him than his clothes – fancy or tattered – and what's in his pockets. Steve sees the world for what it can be. He doesn't just take it for what it is. He expects something great to come out of it.

Bucky, just being near him for one afternoon, is starting to take a new glimpse at the world around him. His world might be champagne bubbles and glitzy galas and glamorous fashion, but there’s so much more to it. Bucky’s been taught his entire life that anything outside the cage they’ve locked him in is wrong. Ugly, even. Any attempts at reaching between the bars to find something new have always been met with scorn and swift retribution and the condescending idea that he’s just being silly again. 

The lock that Bucky’s been desperate to break open for months, maybe even years, Steve has been able to crack in just a few hours. Sure, the door may still be slammed shut, but Bucky’s view has started to shift. There’s beauty all around him. In blank pages. In throwing a punch. In friendships found in the most unexpected places. 

Reaching their destination, Bucky is almost reluctant to leave his side. He must, though. If he doesn’t and lingers, words will be said, and Bucky won’t have that. Not just about himself, but for Steve. 

At the table, Steve sits near the rounded end of it diagonal from Bucky. On either side of Bucky is Alex and Mr. Stark. Winifred sits to Alex’s right. Also seated with them tonight are Peggy – who’s on Steve’s right – Mr. Killian, General Ross, Prince T’Challa – seated to the left of Steve – the Countess de Froste, King T’Chaka, and the Astors. 

They make light conversation. Winifred talks fashion with the Countess. The king and prince speak in their language, but whatever T’Challa’s just said makes his father laugh. Full chested, big smile. He claps a hand down on his son’s shoulder. Bucky looks away, ignoring the pit in the middle of his stomach. Madeleine Astor, who’d leaned close to Bucky when he introduced her to Steve and whispered that it was too bad they were both taken, keeps eyeing Steve. With a bat of her eyes. And a flirty smile. She even engages him in conversation across the table. 

Not that it should bother Bucky. If anything, he should be glad that Steve is being treated kindly and with respect. That doesn’t make this horrible feeling lurch within his belly go away. 

Soon enough, though, they all take something of an interest in Steve. Curiosity, mostly. It isn’t any wonder. Steve has such a kind and open face. Honest. Genuine. Earnest. There’s no doubt they’d want to know more about him. Who he is. Where he’s come from. What he does. 

Mother, of course, can always be counted on. 

“Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Rogers,” she says mere minutes after the table begins talking to him. “I hear they're quite good on this ship.”

There’s a brief, very easy to miss, pause that goes around the table in response to Winifred’s question. A bit of a pull touches at the corners of her lips. Proud, then. Proud that she’s made everyone question Steve’s presence with them tonight. 

Still, Steve, barely missing a beat, pulls out a smile and says, “The best I’ve ever seen, ma’am. Hardly any rats.” 

As they all laugh, clearly unsure whether or not Steve really is a steerage passenger, Bucky motions surreptitiously for Steve to take his napkin off his plate. Catching the signal, albeit, with some confusion at first, Steve snatches the napkin and places it over his lap. 

“Mr. Rogers is joining us from third class,” Alex explains, kindly to the others, haughty and arrogant to Bucky’s ear. “He was of some assistance to my fiancé last night.” Dinner plates are being placed in front of them now. To Steve, as though speaking to a child, Alex says, “This is foie gras. It’s goose liver.”

Now that it’s been officially announced that Steve is _not_ one of them, he becomes subject of furtive glances. A sense of feeling terribly liberal and even dangerous floats among some of them. 

Mr. Astor even whispers to Mr. Killian, “What is Pierce hoping to prove bringing this…this… _bohemian_ up here?”

All Mr. Killian does in response is give him something of a dismayed shrug. Bucky clears his throat, thinking he may have a way to defend Steve’s character. They may not really respect any kind of artist unless they’ve proven themselves to be a commercial success but that doesn’t mean the idea of a starving artist won’t fascinate them in a twisted, morbid sort of way. 

“It turns out that Mr. Rogers is quite the fine artist,” Bucky announces to them all. “He was kind enough to share some of his work with me today.” 

Their faces light up again, impressed, this time with a new round of questions aimed around his art. 

“What sort of art, Mr. Rogers?” Madeleine asks. “Painting? Sculpting? Drawing?”

“Sketching, mostly,” Steve answers. 

“And what is the subject of your art?” the Countess asks. 

Steve chuckles. “Anything that’ll sit still for me.” 

“I wonder, Mr. Rogers,” King T’Chaka says, “if you’d be so inclined show some of your work to my daughter, Shuri. She might not be an artist but–”

“She’s an artist in her own way,” Prince T’Challa says. “Like Mr. Stark and yourself, she creates something from naught but a vision in her mind.” 

The king puts an arm around his son’s shoulders and pulls him in for a quick, affectionate hug. There are big smiles on both their faces. 

“You do me proud, my son,” he murmurs. “You _and_ your sister.”

“I think you’ll all be impressed with his work,” Bucky tells them and smiles back at Steve when their eyes meet. “He’s really quite talented.”

Next to him, Alex, selecting a few pieces of lightly buttered toast off the caviar tray, snickers.

“James and I somewhat differ in our definition of fine art.” Just before Bucky has the chance to be annoyed at the unnecessary comment, Alex lifts his gaze to meet Steve’s. “Not to impugn your work, sir.” 

For the first time in, well, Bucky can’t even remember, Alex sounds sincere in his potential apology for the possible misunderstanding of his statement. At the end of the table, Steve waves the comment off, either ignoring the insinuation or actually taking no offense. Steve then glances down at his place setting and looks confused. Intimidated, actually. He leans toward Peggy to say something, gesturing to the setting in front of him. Whatever it is, it makes Peggy laugh and when she whispers back to him, his eyebrows pull together. 

Before Steve looks up again, Bucky notices that Mr. Stark hasn’t been paying any attention to the discussion about Steve’s art. Strange, that. If anything, Bucky would figure that, of all people, he’d be quite interested in hearing what Steve has to say on the subject. 

But, then, of course, he isn’t paying attention. His attention is focused solely on that little black book of his. Feeling rather bold, Bucky reaches over and presses the end of the opened page down.

“May I ask what you’re doing, Mr. Stark? I see you everywhere writing in this little book.” Smiling, Mr. Stark lifts his hand away and allows Bucky to take it. Bucky reads what he’d been writing aloud. “Increase number of screws in hat hooks from 2 to 3.” He looks at him with a laugh. “You build the biggest ship in the world and _this_ preoccupies you?!”

A proud grin touches his mouth and he gives Bucky something of an exaggerated shrug. “It’s the little things that keep me awake at night.”

“He knows every rivet in her,” Mr. Killian says. “Don't you, Howard?”

“All three million of them.”

“His blood and soul are in the ship. She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God she belongs to Howard Stark.”

`

As it should. Maybe Mr. Killian thought of the ship, but Mr. Stark put her together. Dreamed her bit by bit and piece by piece. Bucky places a gentle hand over Mr. Stark’s wrist. This grabs his attention again and he smiles sweetly at him. 

“Your ship is a wonder, Mr. Stark,” he says, softly. “Truly.”

“Thank you, James. Thank you very much.”

The expression on Mr. Stark’s face when he says this, sweet and appreciative as if Bucky’s opinion on the matter is more valuable than anyone else's, makes Bucky blush. He can’t recall the last time someone looked at him like that. Well, no. Steve gave him the same look when he complimented his art. Actually, he gave him that look several times this afternoon.

One of the waiters has been walking around the table with a serving dish of caviar. Without thinking, Bucky gestures for some to be placed on his dish. He frowns at it. It frowns back at him. Across from him, that waiter approaches Steve now. 

“And how do you take your caviar, sir?” he asks. 

Before Steve can answer for himself, Alex does. 

“Just a soupcon of lemon,” he tells the waiter and then to Steve, smiling, “It improves the flavor with champagne.” Which all their glasses are filled with. 

Just as the waiter would add that small scoop of caviar to Steve’s plate, he holds his hand out to stop him.

“No caviar for me, thank you,” he says. “Never did like it much.”

Pokerfaced, Steve looks at Bucky and smiles, remembering, then, their earlier conversation up on the deck. Bucky returns the smile. 

Winifred, making a face over the ease of their interactions, once again cuts in with another intrusive question, asking softly and disguising her disdain for Steve with fake curiosity. 

“And where exactly do you live, Mr. Rogers?”

“Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic,” he says. “After that…” Steve shrugs. “I’m on God’s good humor.” 

Salad is being served. Steve reaches for a utensil, his hand hovering over them, and then selecting the fish fork. With the wrong fork in his grip, Steve glances at Bucky. Shaking his head, Bucky picks up the salad fork to show him the right one. Appreciation lights up his face as he switches fish fork for salad fork.

“How is it you have the means to travel, Mr. Rogers?” 

“I usually work my way from place to place. Tramp steamers and such.” Steve, obviously easing into a bit more comfort, leans forward and scratches his nose. A clear breach of table etiquette but no one seems to care all that much. Everyone is completely engrossed with what Steve has to say. They’ve been won over by him already. Well, except Alex and Winifred, but then, Bucky can’t expect miracles. “But I won my ticket on Titanic here in a lucky hand at poker.” He glances at Bucky with a tiny grin at the corner of his mouth. “A _very_ lucky hand.” 

“All life is a game of luck,” General Ross says. 

“Mm.” Alex shakes his head as he takes a sip of his champagne. “A real man makes his own luck, Thaddius. Isn’t that right, Rogers?”

Steve perks up with a grin and nods. “Mmm.” 

Every time Steve speaks, Bucky can’t help but notice the way his mother reacts. She goes completely stiff. Sickened, Bucky guesses, that this steerage swine has garnered such positive attention from her own, well-respected crowd. Which only means she’s that much more determined to make him look bad. To put him back in his place. 

Sherry glass held lightly between her fingers, she brings it up to her lips, and just before she’d sip, she asks, “You find that sort of _rootless_ existence _appealing_ , do you?”

Even Peggy looks rather appalled at the way she’s asked that. Bucky himself is utterly mortified that his own flesh and blood would act so rudely. She might hate Steve – and hated him on sight – but at the very least, Bucky assumed she’d play the part of a lady. Then again, oleanders may be the most beautiful flower in a garden. That doesn’t make them any less poisonous.

This question throws Steve off a bit. He has to think on the answer for a moment. While he does, Bucky wishes he could fix this before it upsets Steve. Only he doesn’t have to. 

“Why, yes, ma’am, I do.” 

Steve’s answer is accompanied by a nervous, yet still confident, smile. Winifred, whose eyes have been glaring at Steve the whole time, takes that sip of her drink as though horribly unimpressed by that response. 

“I mean…” He pats his chest. “I got the air in my lungs and a few sheets of blank paper. Really, I love wakin’ up in the morning not knowing what’s gonna happen.” Elbows on the table, Steve plucks his roll off the dish and takes a bite. Continues speaking with his mouth full. “Or who I’m gonna meet, where I’m gonna wind up. Just the other night, I was sleepin’ under a bridge, and now here I am, on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you fine people.” The whole table, except for Winifred and Alex, of course, chuckles. Steve lifts his glass to the waiter pouring the drinks. “I’ll have some more of that.”

Bucky wonders if the rest of the table is as mesmerized by Steve as he is. He never wants him to stop talking. Everything he says is with such conviction and feeling, it’s impossible not to fall in love with him. His words, that is. His words. It’s easy to fall in love with his words.

“I figure, life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wastin’ it,” Steve continues. “You see, my mother raised me on her own since my father died when I was still practically just a baby. And then _she_ died of tuberculosis when I was fifteen, and I’ve been on my own since. After somethin’ like that, you learn to take life as it comes at you.” When he notices Alex searching for his lighter through his jacket pockets, Steve tosses a box of matches to him. “Here ya go, Alex. I plan to make each day count.”

Peggy, not allowing anyone, Winifred in particular, to take away from the brilliance of Steve’s speech, gives Steve gentle applause. 

“Well said, Steve.”

King T’Chaka nods, tilting his head in a most honorable sign of respect. 

“Hear, hear,” he says. 

Now that they’ve all had this chance to see Steve for who he is rather than what he is, Bucky takes the opportunity to show him how much he truly respects his words. Raising his own glass, shoulders back and chin held high, Bucky nods at him.

“To making it count,” he toasts, enthralled, again, by Steve’s sincerity and refreshing candor.

Alex, he knows, stumbles with his utensils for a second, and though Bucky refuses to look at his mother, he can only imagine the expression she wears now. Everyone else, however, cheerfully picks up their own glasses to toast Steve along with him.

“To making it count,” they repeat, while Steve, obviously caught off guard by the tribute he hadn’t even meant to create, lifts his glass with an appreciative gleam in his eye just as everyone takes their sips.

Rather than stand out from the crowd, because there could be nothing worse than such a thing, Alex raises his glass a second later. There’s no enthusiasm in the gesture. Not even in an attempt to fit in with them. Winifred doesn’t even bother with pretense. Well, Bucky can at least say she sticks to her convictions. 

Bucky will surely pay for this later, somehow, but, for some reason, watching Steve grin at him as he takes another sip of champagne, he doesn’t have it in him to care.

***

Dessert has been served. Steve’s attempts at discreetly eating a ton of sweets and pastries were simply adorable. He must have eaten at least three eclairs and a serving of almond pudding and needed to lick the jelly of the raspberry tart off his fingers. He also took four lumps of sugar in his coffee. 

If anyone else noticed, they didn’t comment. To be honest, there’s a good chance they hadn’t seen at all. Bucky has been paying stronger attention to him than anyone else has. He’s just drawn to him. To his voice. To those eyes. To that smile. His spirit. That zest for life that Bucky can only wish he had. 

He’s been right in the middle of most of the conversations that have taken place tonight. A nice change of pace from the mindless chatter of who’s done what or how much someone spent on a new piece of jewelry or painting. Prince T’Challa actually makes a comment on possibly one day purchasing a piece of Steve’s art. 

This makes Steve laugh and offer to sell anything to him for half his usual price. This makes Bucky laugh. The Prince of Wakanda can most certainly afford a drawing for more than ten cents. Anyone at the table can. 

Currently, it’s Peggy who has the floor, and she’s making everyone, herself included, laugh with a story about her husband.

“Gabe has no idea that I’ve hidden the money in the stove,” she says through laughter. “So he comes home, drunk as a pig celebratin’, and he lights a fire!”

Everyone is still laughing at the story, surprisingly even Alex and Winifred as a waiter comes over with a portable humidor. Though Steve’s just popped a grape into his mouth, Bucky leans across the table to say something to him.

“Next,” he murmurs, “it’ll be brandies in the smoking room.”

Before he even finishes his prediction, General Ross is standing and selecting one of the cigars offered to him by the waiter.

“Well, join me for a brandy, gentlemen?” he asks. 

Bucky chuckles to himself, amused by the predictability and happy that his insight seems to make Steve smile. 

“Now they’ll retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate themselves on being _masters_ of the universe.”

They all begin to rise to their feet to leave for the smoking room. Though he doubts Steve will be joining them, he stands as well. Technically, Bucky is _allowed_ to join them, but the invitation never actually includes him. He’ll be expected to either say here with his mother or return to his cabin for the rest of the night. 

“Shall I escort you back to the cabin, sweet pea?” Alex asks, hands pressed lightly over Bucky’s shoulders.

Bucky shakes his head and looks at him. “No, that’s quite all right. I’ll stay here.”

“Coming, Rogers?” T’Challa asks Steve. 

“You don’t want to stay out here with the women,” General Ross says, “do you?”

The women including Bucky, but of course, he’s not counted. As badly as Bucky wishes Steve would remain here with him, he appears to be ready to leave.

“Thanks, but no,” Steve replies. “I should be headin’ back.”

When Alex reaches him, Bucky can hear him say, “Probably best. It'll be all business and politics, that sort of thing. Wouldn't interest you.” Just before he walks away, he turns back around and gets Steve’s attention. When he does, he tosses that box of matches back to him. Steve catches it with ease. “Good of you to come.”

New conversations are already underway as the gentlemen exit, but Bucky hardly cares what they’re about. What matters to him is Steve. Bucky turns on his seat as he comes nearer.

“Steve, must you really go?”

A grin twitches on his mouth. “Time for my coach to turn back into a pumpkin.”

He holds out his hand the same way he did when greeting Bucky before supper. Taking a gentle hold, he once again brings Bucky’s knuckles to his lips and feathers a light kiss across them. When he slides his hand away, Bucky realizes he’s placed something against his palm and he squeezes so that he doesn’t drop it. 

A piece of paper.

Bucky looks at his closed hand for a moment before glancing back up at Steve. Though he’s walking away, he takes a few glimpses over his shoulder before leaving. As soon as he’s gone, Bucky tucks his hands in his lap. Peggy, he sees, is placing a pen back into her purse.

Next to him, Winifred is scowling, watching the path Steve took to cross the enormous room. Once it’s clear that he’s gone she turns that look onto Bucky. Butterflies in his belly, Bucky gives her a weak smile and then opens the note under the table. What’s scrawled across in messy handwriting steals his breath away.

 _Make it count. Meet me at the clock_.

Heart pounding, Bucky takes a sip of his water. Not wanting to draw any attention to himself, he waits a few minutes before excusing himself from the table. Winifred, of course, asks where he’s going.

“Back to the room,” he lies. “I’m suddenly feeling rather weary.”

Without giving her a chance to make any sort of remark to that, Bucky’s already leaving the table, having said his farewells to the others. Peggy gives him a knowing smirk as he exits. 

Bucky crosses the A-Deck foyer to the staircase, the crystal dome overhead and darkened by night, sighting Steve at the landing above. Steve has his back to him, studying the ornate clock with all those beautiful carved figures. Still not sure if he’s really going to do this, Bucky just stands there and takes in a deep breath. Just as the clock softly strikes the hour, he takes the first step. Nine chimes as he goes up the sweeping staircase toward Steve. 

Steve turns. 

Sees him. 

Smiles. 

“Hello, beautiful,” he says. “Wanna go to a real party?”

~~~

Steve hadn’t been sure if Bucky would take him up on his offer. He’d stood by the clock just hoping. He didn’t want to leave the table when the other men did. It’d been a little surprising that Bucky wasn’t invited to the smoking room with them. Knowing he wouldn’t be leaving made Steve want to stay even more. But his welcome, he knew, was slowly wearing thin. 

Peggy certainly didn’t mind having him around, and Steve assumed that had to do with living on both sides of the line. She knew what it meant to be on the outside looking in. How it felt to be judged and looked down upon. She’d even been kind enough to slip him the pen and piece of paper that Steve had used for the note he left with Bucky. Then there was the King and Prince of Wakanda. Even actual royalty welcomed him with open arms and treated him with kindness and respect. 

So it hadn’t been a total loss.

True, Bucky’s mother would rather smoosh Steve under the toe of her heeled shoes than even so much as smile at him, and that fiancé of his wanted to keel over any time Steve said something that impressed the others, but then, he’d always known that the invitation was never anything more than a chance to ridicule him. They may’ve been courteous enough to wait until after dinner, but no doubt that’s what Alex had expected. He most definitely didn’t expect Steve to win any of them over. 

Not that Steve had actually been trying. He’d just been himself. What mattered more to him was the way Bucky looked at him throughout the meal. Like everything he said mattered. He hung onto every word as if Steve’s stories were the new fabric that would sew his life back together. 

Steve doesn’t know much about that, but he does know that having Bucky at his side while they make their way to the Third Class General Room is electric. The hairs behind his neck stand on edge. His heart thumps against his chest. He wants so badly to reach out and hold Bucky by the hand. He refrains, of course. Steve _does_ have self-control. That doesn’t make it any less tempting; the thought of that soft, smooth hand in his. 

The loud, uproarious sounds from below deck see Bucky tensing as they approach the stairwell. Steve chuckles and lightly cups his elbow, coaxing him to follow. He looks even more nervous than Steve felt while making his way to that stiff and dull supper. If that’s what passes as a good time and entertaining for the wealthy, Steve would have succumbed to absolute madness already. 

They follow the same path that Bucky took to find him earlier, and they’re not even halfway down the stairs when he stops short. Eyes wide and mouth agape, he can only stare at the scene below them.

“Oh my…” he murmurs. 

Alive with music and laughter, the raucous Third Class, packed together in a much smaller space than those above, carries on with their nightly fun. It’s hot and noisy. Sweat dampens men’s messy locks and dot women’s foreheads. An ad hoc band consisting of fiddles, handheld drums, accordions, bagpipes, and even tambourines has gathered near the piano, spilling out lively, exciting music. People of all ages are dancing throughout the room. Not just men with women either. Men spin around with other men. Women lead other women in twirls and happy-go-lucky tos and fros. Children dash between the legs of adults. Warm beer and wine are being poured by the bottles. Cigarette smoke wafts above them. There’re even people brawling with each other, knocking into others and turning over chairs and tables. 

All the while, without the money and riches and decadence, everyone goes on smiling and laughing and losing themselves in this wild merriment. 

“Little different than champagne and caviar, huh?”

“I’ll say.”

Steve snickers. “C’mon, Bucky.”

They continue down to the General Room and when Steve spots Sam sitting at one of the small, square tables with Natalia, he, without thinking, takes Bucky by the wrist to lead him over there. Because they need to squeeze through the crowd to make it, maneuvering through people dancing and carrying drinks, Steve keeps checking on Bucky over his shoulder. 

Although he still looks rather intimidated, he appears more fascinated than anything else. Eyes roaming around the room and glistening whenever they spot something that must excite him. 

“Just get a look at _this_ guy,” Sam laughs when he sees Steve approaching. “You look a lot like my buddy Steve only all cleaned up.” 

With him and Natalia are Clint and his wife, Laura. Their son and daughter are currently running around with some other kids. The table is littered with glasses. Some empty, some full, others half-full. Clint’s got a rolled cigarette between his fingers and passes it to Natalia.

“Aw, stuff it, Wilson,” Steve chuckles. “I feel like a monkey.” 

Fingers at the neck of his shirt, Steve tugs out the knot of the bowtie and loosens the thread at the collar. It’s way too hot in here for this jacket as well so he takes it off and flings it over the back of the one empty chair. 

“You look like one, too,” Natalia agrees. “A fancy one.” 

“Didn’t think we’d ev’r see ya again, Steve,” Laura says. “Thought maybe they’d eat ya for supper themselves.” 

Steve stands up proudly and pretends to fix the straps of the suspenders that he didn’t need to borrow from Peggy. He’ll have to figure out a way to get the whole suit back to her. 

“They did their very best, but you gotta get up real early to pull the wool over _my_ eyes.” 

Sam looks at their new friends and laughs. “Don’t worry. You can sleep till noon and still be good.”

The table bursts out laughing at both Sam’s remark and Steve’s dismayed counter to that and even from behind, Steve can hear a soft chuckle. 

“Did ya steal one’ve them, then?” Clint asks. 

Smiling, Steve looks back at Bucky, who grins timidly at him, and then guides him to his side. 

“Everyone, this is Bucky.”

As he introduces Bucky to everyone, Clint is kind enough to drag another chair over for him and gestures for Bucky to sit. Uncertainty passes across Bucky’s face. Steve finds it almost funny – a First Class Passenger being so nervous here in Steerage. Like he’s worried they’ll sacrifice him or something. 

Before Steve assures him that it’s fine to sit there, he first helps him out of his jacket. No doubt he’s just as hot as he is, but manners might have him keep this ridiculous thing on all night anyway. The least Steve can do is help him be more comfortable. 

Once Bucky is seated, and, like Steve’s jacket, Steve tosses his over the back of the chair, Steve sits next to him. 

“So, Bucky.” Sam takes a big gulp of his drink. “What’re ya doin’ with this bum?” He shoves a thumb at Steve. “Tryin’ convert him to your side?”

That shy smile touches Bucky’s face again. He really is more adorable than he could possibly ever realize. 

“Certainly not,” he says, and before anyone can misunderstand that, he adds, “Steve is much too good for any of them.” 

He gets a round of laughter for that and while Clint takes to jostling Steve by the shoulder, Sam pats Bucky on the back as though that’s the most logical reason Steve could never fit in with his crowd. 

And just like that, they go on with their conversations as though Bucky being a part of them is perfectly normal. Whether it’s Bucky’s innocent charm and enthusiasm or that they trust Steve’s judge of character, they simply accept him. 

Not everyone does. They’ve received more than one look from other people, but for the most part, most everyone just seems curious by Steve’s guest. They ask him questions about himself. Where he’s from. Where he’s headed. Where he’s traveled. It takes a little while for Bucky to get used to having to shout his answers. His upbringing, at first, sees him responding to most things as though he’s still in the First Class Dining Saloon. But, after a bit of time, he gets the hang of it and lets his voice travel over the noise and music that the Third Class is made of. 

When Clint goes off to get them more drinks, he comes back with a pint of stout for Bucky as well. Bucky picks it up and holds it for a moment, just looking at the drink. Lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s, Steve holds his own up to offer a little cheers to him. With a light shrug, Bucky clinks their glasses and takes a drink. 

His eyes light up and some of it dribble down his chin and when someone hands him another, he hoists it without a second thought. By this time, Bucky’s lost himself to the fun and laughter like everyone else. He forgets to be polite and sheds the polished courtesy to clap along with the music and when he laughs it’s without any reservation that someone might catch him acting inappropriately–as if, somehow, a full-blown laugh is inappropriate.

More than once, Steve realizes that Natalia is speaking to Bucky in Russian. Whatever it is they talk about makes Bucky fold in grins and Natalia flick her eyebrows almost knowingly at him. Steve can’t understand them, but from their body language alone, it looks as though she’s teasing him. 

“Okay, what is goin’ on with you two?” Sam, who’s apparently noticed as well, asks. “Why’re we keepin’ secrets?” 

“Oh, you hush _,_ and stick to your drinks.” She reaches across the table and pinches Bucky’s cheek. “My _маленький_ and me are allowed as many secrets as we please.” 

This seems to please Bucky as well, sharing secrets with Natalia. She comes with a hard exterior, that was evident the moment Steve met her, but just in the brief time knowing her he can tell that beneath that exterior beats the heart of a kind, as-vulnerable-as-anyone woman. Protective of those she cares for and willing to do whatever it takes to keep them safe. 

Being taken under her wing is an honor and every time she and Bucky share a private moment, this shows very clearly on Bucky's face. Sam, waiting patiently during one of these moments, holds his hand out to Natalia when she and Bucky finish talking. 

“Care to take a whirl around the dance floor with me?”

She laughs and takes his hand. “I will dance circles around you.”

They step up together, and Sam first asks if he can place his hand on her lower back before he actually puts in there, and once he does, they hop in time with the music. Out on the makeshift dance floor with them, Laura is sharing a dance with her son, Cooper. Upon realizing this, Lila comes running over to the table looking for Clint. Since Clint has gone off to fetch more drinks, Steve takes her by her little hand and leads her out there himself. 

She squeals with excitement as Steve twirls her around under his arm and back again. She spins around and their arms swing back and forth. At one point, Steve lifts her up to put her on his feet to dance with her that way. 

While he dances with her, Steve can tell he’s being watched by Bucky, who smiles and claps along and continues to take gulps of his drink. When the song stops, he eases Lila off his toes and points to Bucky. 

“I’m gonna dance with him now, okay?” Still pointing, Steve grins at Bucky. “Come on.”

Realizing he’s pointing at him, Bucky straightens up and looks around as though Steve _must_ be pointing to someone else. His face falls. Bucky’s hands, which had been clapping up until now, stay pressed together. He shakes his head before even saying anything.

“What?”

A new tune is beginning to play. Steve gestures for Bucky to join him and when he doesn't, he chuckles and goes to him. 

“Come with me.”

Without giving him a chance to reply, Steve takes him by the hand to lead him to the dance floor.

“N-no, Steve…I can’t!”

“Sure you can,” he replies. “You said you wanted to be a dancer, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but…” 

The song and tempo have gotten upbeat and faster now. People all around begin to dance once more. Bucky is trembling as Steve takes his right hand in his left. His own right hand slips to the small of his back. The moment is electrifying. 

“We’re gonna have to move a little closer.” Steve pulls him almost completely against his body. “Like this.” When Steve notices that Lila is standing off to the side with a pout on her face, he smiles for her. “You’re still my best girl, Lila.”

This appeases the little girl and she laughs, scampering away to have fun elsewhere. Turning his attention back to Bucky, Steve forgets for a moment how close they are. Their noses almost touch and for one brief second, he thinks about brushing their lips together. He shakes the thought away. 

“I don’t know the steps,” Bucky confesses. “How do I–”

“I don’t either,” Steve assures him with a smirk. “Just move with the music. Don’t think!”

The song is in full swing now and they take off dancing. It’s a little awkward at first and while Steve is no great dancer, Bucky has more grace and balance than he could have imagined. He grins at Steve as he starts to get the rhythm of the steps then lets loose a wild laugh and cheers as they bounce around the floor with everyone else. 

Once Bucky releases the first laugh, he’s unable to hold any back. It’s like he’s opened up a door that’s been locked for years. A door that’s kept all this enjoyment and fun hidden away so that he couldn’t have any access to it. Now that he’s found the key and turned it, it’s coming out all at once and Steve couldn’t be more thrilled that he gets to be a part of it. They just plunge into the fray and do their best to keep up with the music. 

Everything is rowdy and rollicking. In the corner of the room, a table gets knocked over as a drunkard crashes into it. And in the middle of it, Steve Rogers dances with Bucky Barnes. The steps are fast and they shine with sweat. A space opens around them, and people watch them, clapping as the band plays faster and faster.

Though he hardly knows what he’s doing, Steve moves them into that open space and does his own sort of jig with his feet. As though taking that as a challenge, Bucky nods and does the same, only his is much more well-executed. His feet move with the learned precision of years of practice and when Steve tries again, Bucky outdoes him for a second time. 

Laughing at their little dance show, they link arms and spin in a circle before switching arms and spinning back in the other direction. After the second spin, Steve gathers Bucky’s hands in his and they begin to twirl. 

Fast. 

“Steve!” Bucky shouts. “No!”

But Steve can only laugh and a second later, Bucky’s laughing even louder with his eyes slammed closed as they continue to go around in circles. 

The tune ends in a mad rush and Steve steps away from Bucky with a flourish, allowing him to take a bow. Exhilarated and possibly slightly tipsy, he still manages to do a graceful révérence, one leg behind the other, knees bent, arms elegantly spread. Everyone laughs and applauds. Bucky, Steve can tell, is a hit with the Steerage folk, even those who had been wary of him earlier. 

While everyone else is dancing again, they move back to the table, flushed and sweaty. Steve finds two full glasses and reaches over Sam and Clint for them, too busy arm-wrestling to worry about Steve stealing their drinks, and hands one to Bucky. As soon as Bucky has it, he downs most of it in just two gulps. 

Unable to take his eyes off of him, Steve gives him an impressed chuckle. When Bucky notices the attention he smirks, breathless and teasing. 

“What?” he asks. “You think a First Class boy can't drink?”

Just as Steve would respond to that, someone slams into his back which makes Steve’s drink slosh all over Bucky’s suit. He squeals as he’s hit and Steve quickly turns around to shove the guy away. When he checks on Bucky again, though, Bucky’s alive with wild laughter, beer dripping down his face. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “I swear. This is the most fun I’ve ever had.”

Next to them, Sam’s just beaten Clint in their arm-wrestling match, the bottles and glasses rattling around on the table when their hands slam down. 

“No!” Clint exclaims. “Two outta three! Two outta three!”

Bucky cooly strolls over to them and places his almost empty glass down. 

“So!” he says, slipping the cigarette out from between Clint’s lips and taking a heavy drag. “You think you’re big tough men, huh?” Bucky hands the cigarette back over. “Let’s see you do this.” Bucky pulls his shoes off without untying them and hands them to Steve. “Hold these, Steve.” 

Going completely still for a moment, Bucky sucks in a deep, steadying breath before bringing his arms out in front of him, then lifts up on just one toe to do not one, not two, but _three_ pirouettes without even staggering. Well, not until he puts his other foot back down. When he’s back on both feet he topples into Steve’s arms giggling.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Laura says. “Have ya ever seen somethin’ like that?”

“Oh my goodness,” Bucky says in still in Steve’s arms. “I haven’t done that in years.” 

Still holding Bucky, Steve can only laugh and smile along with him. Even when the music has everyone still dancing and Sam, hand-in-hand with Natalia, comes back around and pulls Bucky along with them, and Bucky is sure to grab Steve to tow him along, he can’t stop smiling. This is the most fun he’s had in years. He never wants this night to end. 

Eventually, though, the music slowly comes to a stop. A fiddler too tired to keep going. The man playing the accordion drank one too many drinks. Slowly but surely, the night begins to wind down. 

Clint and Laura have already retreated to their room to put Lila and Cooper to bed. Neither of them returned. Natalia retires not long after them, insisting that she needs to go check on her parents. From what Steve’s come to understand, they haven’t been exactly the most thrilled about the company she’s chosen to keep while onboard. This has hardly deterred her from seeking out Sam or for Sam to revel in their time together. Sam even offers to walk her back. Natalia agrees, holding her arm out so that Sam may escort her. 

Once they’ve gone, Steve knows he can’t delay the inevitable any longer. By the look on Bucky’s face, he knows it too. Not letting this dampen their good spirits, Steve gestures with silly exaggeration toward the stairs. 

“After you, sir.”

Bucky, rosy-cheeked and giggling, mocks a bow. “Why, thank you.”

The stars blaze overhead, so bright and clear they pave a sparkling road to another world. Steve and Bucky walk along the row of lifeboats stumbling a little here and there, an abundance of hushed laughter, but keep catching each other before they can fall. Still giddy from the party, Bucky starts humming a song that Steve recognizes immediately. “Come Josephine in her Flying Machine” is quite the popular tune and rather than hum along, Steve takes Bill Murray’s lines and starts singing. Loud and offkey and horribly out of tune.

“Oh! Say! Let us fly, dear!”

To Steve’s surprise – though, really, he should stop being surprised by Bucky’s boldness when he’s given the chance to show it – Bucky laughs and picks up with Ada Jones’ lines.

“Where, kid?!”

“To the _sky_ , dear!”

“Oh, you flying machine!”

“Jump in Miss Josephine!”

“Ship ahoy!”

“Oh joy! What a feeling!”

“Where, boy? To the ceiling! Ho high! Hoopla we fly!”

“To the sky so high!”

They stop walking now to face each other, grinning ear to ear as they continue singing the duet together. 

“Come Josephine in my flying machine! Going up she goes! Up she goes! Balance yourself like a bird on a beam, in the air she goes! There she goes! Up, up, a little bit higher! Oh! My! The moon is on fire! Come Josephine in my flying machine! Going up, all on, Goodbye!”

Steve knows the next few lines and he’s sure that Bucky does too but they fumble over them and break down laughing. They’ve reached the First Class Entrance, but Bucky doesn’t go straight in. In fact, he grimaces at the door, not wanting the evening to end either, Steve hopes. Through the doors, the sound of the ship's orchestra wafts gently. 

“Well,” Bucky says, “here we are.”

“Here we are.”

Bucky hesitates. Gets out something of a little laugh. “I don’t want to go back.”

Instead of biding Steve farewell or leaving or both, Bucky glances upward.

“Look,” he says softly and grabs a davit and leans back, staring at the cosmos. He sways a little, the drinks getting to his head, but he manages just fine to keep on his feet. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” he says. “So grand and endless.”

“The stars?” Steve asks, not really needing clarification but just in case Bucky’s blurred mind has seen something he hasn’t. 

“Mhm. A world we know virtually nothing about. I mean, who knows what wonders wait for us behind them.” 

Bucky goes to the rail now and leans his forearms against it, still looking up at the twinkling lights above them. Inside, they clearly catch the unmistakable sound shrill laughter. First looking over his shoulder in the direction it’s come from, Bucky huffs and then swings his gaze back to the stars again.

“We’re so small compared to all that. But my crowd.” He scoffs. “They think…well, they just imagine that they're giants on this earth, but just look at all that!” He waves his finger through the air as though he can connect all the sparkling dots. “They're not even dust in God's eye. They live inside this little tiny champagne bubble where everything is bright and shiny, but someday that bubble is going to burst and soak them with the truth. That, really, they’re nothing. No better than any man who gets his hands dirty in a coal mine or a woman who pricks her finger as a seamstress or…or…”

Frustration seems to win out over thinking of any more words to use. Bucky sighs with a shake of his head. Steve leans at the rail next to him, his hand just touching his. It is the slightest contact imaginable, but all Steve can feel is that square inch of skin where their hands are touching.

“You're not one of them,” he murmurs. “There's been a mistake.”

Bucky glances his way. “A mistake?”

“Uh-huh.” Steve nods. “You got mailed to the wrong address.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Bucky says, laughing, and then points to the sky with a gasp. “Look! A shooting star!”

Steve glances up in time to see it. The nighttime sky is so clear that the tail of it glitters across the black background for several seconds before tapering off. 

“That was a long one,” Steve says, eyes still on the last spot the falling star graced the sky. “My mom used to say that whenever you saw one, it was a soul going to heaven.”

A soft, peaceful smile turns up on Bucky’s mouth. He seems to consider this for a moment and ends up nodding.

“I like that,” he whispers. “Aren’t we supposed to wish on it?”

Steve looks at him, and finds that they are suddenly very close together, their bodies inclined toward each other. It would be so easy to move another couple of inches, to kiss him. Just let their lips meet even if just for one heartbeat. By the way Bucky softly licks his lips, he seems to be thinking the same thing. 

Even out here in the cool, sea air, everything is warm and buzzing with life. Heat rolls between them. All Steve can look at is Bucky’s lips. 

“What would you wish for?”

Bucky’s eyes drop to Steve’s mouth as well. He leans in just a little closer, his bottom lip trembling before he pulls back with a sudden, rough breath. Panting for a moment, he shakes his head and moves away.

“Something I can’t have.” He smiles, sadly. “Goodnight, Steve. And thank you.” 

He pushes away from the rail then, hurrying through the First Class Entrance. Steve’s heart pounds as he leaves and he calls out to him before thinking better of it.

“Bucky, wait!”

But the door bangs shut, and he’s gone back to his world. 

A world Steve’s not meant to be a part of. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Stupid Cupid's Day! I figured I'd post this chapter today since it's sorta the least-angsty.
> 
> So some images for this chapter:
> 
> Steve's Dinner Suit
> 
>   
>    
> Bucky's Dinner Suit
> 
> Third Class Dining Room
> 
> Second Class Dining Room (not talked about much but there _was_ a second class, too)
> 
>   
>    
> First Class Dining Saloon
> 
> First Class Restaurant 
> 
> First Class Parisian Cafe


	5. April 14th, 1912

**April 14th, 1912**

**Daytime**

Another bright, clear day rises around the _Titanic._ A perfect blue sky for a warm, beautiful Sunday morning. Sunlight splashes across the private promenade deck where Bucky sits eating breakfast with Alex, his mind preoccupied with all that went on last night. 

Being with Steve and his friends down in Steerage was unlike anything Bucky had ever experienced. It’d been exhilarating. Filled his heart with the desire to play and be silly, and do so without having to face dire consequences. Bucky danced and drank and smoked. No one mocked or judged him for it. No one tried to make him stop. No one patted his head and thought him childish.

Quite the opposite in fact. If anything, he’d been welcomed with open arms to embrace all the fun and festivities that went on around him. He’d go back again tonight if it were at all conceivable. 

Every time he thinks about it, though, Bucky’s reminded of the silence he sits in with Alex. Not that he particularly wants to have any conversation with him, but this long, drawn-out silence is unusual. Normally, Alex would at least do some talking. Instructions on how Bucky is expected to behave or soft reprimands of what he’d done wrong the day before. 

Instead of anything of the sort, Alex concentrates on his meal, face hard and stern, not once raising his gaze to even look at Bucky. The tension is palpable. Heart pounding, Bucky would give anything to loosen it. 

Darcy is there with them, preparing their tea tray. Of course, Brock is there as well, but then, that’s not unusual. 

This is actually making Bucky rather nervous. If Alex would only say something, then maybe he’d know what he’s thinking. Other than the sounds of their utensils touching their plates and the wind behind the deck, Bucky can only hear his pulse pounding in his ears. When Bucky stirs some honey into his tea, and the teaspoon taps against the side of his teacup, Alex takes his first glance up at him.

Eyes meeting, Bucky offers him a slight, timid smile. This is only returned with a flick of his eyebrows as Darcy pours him some more coffee. Once Darcy finishes, she asks if they need anything else.

Not giving Bucky the chance to even consider if there's something he wants, Alex waves her away. When she exits the deck, Alex gestures for Brock to take his leave as well. 

Alone with Alex, Bucky suddenly feels exposed and vulnerable. Worried that something bad is about to happen, he shifts in his chair. Attempts to pull off an air of nonchalance and likely fails horrendously. His hand trembles as he brings his cup to his lips. Utterly ridiculous and awfully embarrassing.

“I had hoped,” Alex says, “that you’d come to me last night.”

Breath catching, Bucky clears his throat. “I was…I was tired.” 

“Mm.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “No doubt your exertions below decks were exhausting.” 

Stiffening, Bucky releases a hard breath through his nose. He swallows roughly and can only think of one reason that he’d know that. Bucky, feeling oddly brave and defiant, licks his lips and sighs. 

“I see you had that undertaker of a manservant follow me,” he replies. “How typical.” 

“You will never behave like that again, James,” Alex orders with the outright expectation of being obeyed. And most definitely not questioned. “Do you understand? Never.”

Maybe it’s all the time he’s spent around Steve or maybe it’s just leftover confidence from last night. Or maybe he’s just sick and tired of being treated this way by everyone in his life. Bucky’s not a child. He’s not someone that anyone can just snap their finger at to perform menial feats for them. He’s a person, too, damn it, and he goddamn deserves to be treated that way. 

“I’m _not_ some foreman in one of your mills, Alex,” Bucky says back to him. “I’m your _fiancé_.”

Alex snaps a furious glare up at him. He’s never, not _once_ looked at Bucky this way, and Bucky flinches.

“My fiancé?” he repeats as though astonished that Bucky would say such a thing. “My _fiancé_?!” Alex erupts then, sweeping the breakfast china off the table with a crash. He moves to Bucky in one shocking moment, glowering over him and gripping the sides of his chair to trap him between his arms. “Yes! You are!” Bucky whimpers, cowering away from Alex’s fury. He’s always been in such perfect control of his anger. “And my _spouse_ …in practice, if not yet by law. So you will _honor_ me, the same way a _wife_ is required to honor her _husband_! I will _not_ be made out a fool, James! Is this in any way unclear?”

Trembling in the seat, Bucky struggles with his mouth in an attempt to answer. He can’t quite find the words, though, so when Alex’s hand flies up, Bucky flings his arm up to cover himself.

“No, please!” he exclaims, shrinking into his chair. “Don’t hit me! I- I understand, I won’t do it again!” 

It goes still for a moment. Still shaking, Bucky slowly lowers his arms to see that Alex has straightened again. Satisfied smirk on his face, he adjusts his tie and just stands over him, until Bucky notices Darcy, frozen, partway through the door with a tray of orange juice. Following his gaze, Alex sneers and gives Bucky a pat on the head and stalks away. 

For a moment, Bucky just sits there, unmoving. Afraid Alex will come storming back in, he holds his breath for as long as he can. When he releases it, it’s ragged and weak and comes out with the start of a broken sob. He tries to smother it down with the palm of his hand. 

Just seconds later, Darcy is rushing over to him. When Bucky notices, he slides off the chair, attempting to get ahold of himself, and acting as though he’s just gone to the floor to clean up the mess.

“I…I’m sorry, Darcy,” he says, voice shaky and holding back tears. “We had…we h-had a little accident.”

“It’s all right, sir,” Darcy is saying. “Please, Bucky.” Her hand rests softly over his shoulder. “It’s okay.” 

“Let…Let m-me help you.”

“It’s okay, sir.” Darcy’s voice is soft and soothing. “It’s okay.”

Bucky falls flat on his behind now, forgoing any attempts at pretending this was an accident. There’s no hiding it and Darcy already knows. 

No matter what she says, though, no matter what comfort she tries to provide, it isn’t okay. It’ll never be okay again. Especially now that Bucky’s shown Alex just how much he fears him. Fears that hand sailing across his cheek. 

Those sobs come out harder now. So much more forceful. How could he have been so foolish? This is his life now. The constant worry that he’ll do something wrong. There’s no longer room for any defiance now that Alex knows the power he holds over him. At least before, he still had the pretense of not fearing him. 

That’s gone now. With one flinch and a rush of pleading words, it’s gone, and Bucky’s lost whatever bit of himself he’d held onto for all these months. 

All around him, Darcy has already cleaned up everything. The china, even the broken pieces, have been piled up on the table. She soaked up the spilled juice and tea and coffee with a towel. The little red carnation that’d decorated the small breakfast table has been placed back in the thin, glass vase. 

Bucky glances up at her, weepy eyes full of gratitude and wishes there was some way he could express how helpful she’s truly been to him. Instead of saying a word, he just takes her hands when she offers her assistance in helping him get back to his feet. 

“Th-thank you, Darcy,” he whispers. “I’m…I’m sorry.” 

“No need to be sorry, sir,” she says, placing her hand at the small of his back. “Why don’t we get you washed up, hm?”

She speaks to him most kindly. His maid. A servant. Here, taking care of him better than his own mother has since his father passed. Hard, sharp lump in his throat, Bucky nods.

“O-okay.” 

Darcy doesn’t lead him into the washroom, though. She has him sit at the corner of his bed and disappears in there herself, returning with a wet cloth. Pressing it gently to his face, Darcy wipes the teartracks from his cheeks as Bucky’s breaths finally begin to even out.

Once he’s cleaned off, Darcy offers to help him dress. Mass will be starting soon and Bucky is expected to be there regardless of how he feels. Next to him, there’s a suit already laid out on the bed.

It’s a medium brown, three-buttoned suit with pale yellow pinstripes. The vest a lighter shade of brown with those same thin stripes. He'll wear a gold-colored tie and pocket square that compliments the yellow. He needs to dress. Get on with his day. Forget all about Steve and the way he makes him feel. 

“Would you like a cuppa,” Darcy asks, “before Mass begins? I can bring it if you’d like.” 

Standing in front of the mirror, Bucky flattens his lapel and nods. “Yes, thank you, Darcy. That’d be nice.” 

Now that the dust has had a chance to settle, Bucky’s left with only one overwhelming emotion. He’s absolutely livid. With himself, mostly. He let Alex see his last hand and Alex snatched the cards right out of his grip, tore them to pieces and scattered them to the wind. Gleefully watching Bucky lose any bit of advantage he might have had when this marriage happens. 

Bucky wipes a few hot, angry tears from his eyes and keeps a stiff upper lip. He’s not going to let Alex make him cry. He’s just not. Regardless, Bucky still sighs. Stuck. Just completely and utterly stuck. 

Darcy comes back just a few minutes later, but it’s with a grave expression on her face rather than with that cup of tea she’s promised. 

“What is it, Darcy?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Your mother, sir,” she says. “She’d like a word with you in her suite.” 

Bucky sighs. Of course, she does. He should have assumed that he wouldn’t get away with this without at least two reprimands. Bucky nods and turns for the door. It’s not a far walk, but the walk from his stateroom to his mother’s feels long and most solemn. 

In Winifred’s room, her maid, Ruth, is busy fitting her into her corset as she readies for the day. When Bucky knocks on the doorframe, his mother tells him, hard and firm, to come in, almost as though she already knows it’s him and exactly how she intends to handle the situation.

She’d been facing the bed, hands bracing her weight on one of the posts, but she’s turned now that Bucky’s come. Not fully shutting the door behind him, Bucky, stepping into the room gives her a cautious wave. Winifred doesn’t return the sentiment. No speck of emotion flickers across her face other than that stern fury direction right at Bucky. 

“Tea, Ruth,” she demands, and Ruth gives her a slight curtsey and shuffles out of the room.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door closes behind her and for a long, drawn-out moment, Winifred just stares at Bucky. With her eyes on him like this, like she detests his very presence, Bucky wants to start crying again. She’s never looked at him like that, and Bucky thinks, right now, she would slap him herself if it wasn’t considered unladylike. 

“Mother…” 

Before she allows him to say more, Winifred turns back around and holds onto the bedpost again. Bucky knows what she wants. What he’s been taught to do for her and his sister. He takes the ends of the corset bindings and tightens, lacing up from the spot Ruth had left off. 

It’s silent until Winifred finally says, “You are not to see that boy again, do you understand me?” Since she can’t see him, Bucky rolls his eyes. The tight bindings do not inhibit her fury at all. “ _James_.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I forbid it.”

Knee at the base of his mother's back for support, Bucky pulls the corset strings tightly with both hands. Without Alex here to stop or criticize him, Bucky can finally be bold and straightforward with her instead of just agreeing with whatever she has to say or whatever she wants from _him_. Maybe, if he fights back just a little, he can retain some sort of independence. Freedom.

“Stop it, Mother,” he mutters. “You’ll give yourself a nosebleed.” 

But Winifred pulls away from him and, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, crosses to the door to lock it. The key turning makes a clacking sound that echoes through Bucky’s ears.

“James, this is not a game!” she scolds between tight lips. “Our situation is precarious. You know the money's gone!

Something hot and tight squeezes right in the center of Bucky’s chest. Money, money, _money_. That’s all that matters. Not what he wants. Not what’s right. Just _fucking_ money.

“Of _course_ , I know it’s gone,” he says, as mockingly as he can conjure. “You _remind_ me everyday.”

Face still tight, Winifred grabs him by the shoulders and rattles him as if she feels the need to shake sense into him. She’s already lost her patience before and it seems to be wearing thin right now. 

“Your _father_ …” She might try to hide it, but Winifred says that with leftover tenderness for the husband she lost so suddenly. “He left us _nothing_ but a legacy of bad debts hidden by a good name. And that name is the only card we have to play.”

 _You have me_ , Bucky thinks, backing away and grabbing the bedpost. _And Rebecca. Why can’t we be enough_?

“I don't understand you,” Winifred says with a disappointed shake of her head. “It is a _fine_ match with Pierce, and it will ensure our survival.”

Hurt and lost, Bucky fumbles a bit with his words and he takes another step back, crashing into the bedpost. His chest rumbles with another threat of tears. 

“How can you put this on my shoulders?”

“Why are you being so _selfish_?”

“ _I’m_ being selfish?”

Disbelief crashes through his heart. Makes it burn to ash. Bucky turns her around and grabs the corset strings again. Winifred sucks in her waist for Bucky to keep pulling.

“Do you want to see me working as a seamstress? Is that what you want?” 

The strings her corset fall from Bucky’s hands. Winifred turns around again, and for the first time since his father died, Bucky can see the pure, naked _fear_ in his mother’s eyes. That lump in his throat grows and stabs even harder.

“Do you want to see our fine things sold at an auction?” she continues. “Your sister in a factory? Our memories scattered to the winds?”

Her voice breaks enough that she covers her mouth with her hand, turning away like she just can’t face Bucky while experiencing any emotion, let alone heartache such as this. Shoulders trembling, her head dips down like she’s crying. Bucky hasn’t seen her shed a tear since they buried his father. 

Unable to stand there while she weeps, Bucky places his hands gently at her shoulders and rests his brow against the back of her neck. Guilt gnaws at his insides. He didn’t mean to upset her. 

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispers. “Please, don’t cry.” 

Her fingers slip around Bucky’s. They give them a soft squeeze. The affection she used to show him coming through even if only slightly. Bucky knows that his mother loves him. It’s just been overshadowed by the incessant need to retain the prestige and wealth their family is known for.

Bucky sighs. “This is so unfair.” 

Winifred turns to face him again, expression torn between her normal composure and ironic, dark amusement. 

“Of course, it’s unfair,” she murmurs. “Your sister and I are women. And you’re…” _You_. That’s what she doesn’t bring herself to say. Bucky has tastes and desires that liken him to a woman’s station. He never realized how truly unfair and unjust it meant to be a woman until the world decided upon itself how someone of his caliber should be treated. “Our choices are never easy, are they?”

Hands caressing his face, so soft and gentle, Winifred steps up close to him and presses a tender kiss to his cheek. Bucky has nothing left to fight with. He nods, conveying his understanding as best he can, and when she smiles softly, he eases her back around to finish tying her corset. 

~~~

Steve woke this morning with a skip to his heart and a spring in his step. He can’t seem to wipe this smile off his face. The sky looks bluer. The sun shines brighter. Higher, even. None of this makes sense, of course, Steve knows that, but it all feels true. He wishes he could capture this feeling and turn it into a color. It’d make the most perfect addition to the already magnificent rainbow. 

He never thought he could possibly feel this way. So on top of the world. No fancy cars and clothes. No caviar and champagne. No riches and fame. All Steve needed was that bright way Bucky smiled at him and how he inched closer of his own accord. 

Last night, the air buzzed between them so loud and so hard, Steve’s surprised that they hadn’t both lost their footing and toppled onto one another. The stars, he thinks, were rooting for them. Just before Bucky ran back inside, Steve’s certain he wanted to kiss him. He wouldn’t be surprised if the band inside played a drumroll just for them. That tension had been strong enough to slice through with a knife. 

All Steve needed to do was cross that tiny space that Bucky left between them and their lips would have met. Sparks would have gone off, bright and colorful. Enough to put those stars above to shame. 

When Steve had gone back to his room after his desperate albeit failed attempt to ask Bucky to stay longer, he’d fallen into his bunk with a smile on his face. He’d thought, when he won the ticket that brought him here, that it’d been destiny. 

Steve believes that even more now. He knows full well that he and Bucky are from two completely different worlds but after last night maybe they…maybe…well, he isn’t entirely sure what it means, but maybe it can mean something. Anything that might end with them together. 

Because Steve has fallen hard for this First Class boy that he has no business even being in the same room with. Not by the world’s standards, anyway. Bucky is so out of his league that Steve might as well try to step foot on the moon like Josephine and her flying machine.

“Only one reason for a man to have _that_ look on his face.” 

Steve, realizing that’s been directed at him, looks up from his breakfast. Ham and eggs. A roll with a smear of marmalade. Glass of milk and coffee to wash it all down. Nothing like the fancy feast he was served at supper last night but better than he might scrounge up when he’s down on his luck. 

“What look?” he asks, tearing off a piece of his roll with his teeth. "What're you talkin' about?"

"You, _дорогой_ ," Natalia says. "And that silly face you've been making all morning long."

"Morning?" Sam let's loose a hearty laugh and claps Steve on the shoulder. "Try since last night. Kid's had that dopey grin on his mouth since he came down here with his Prince Charming. Completely in love."

“I’m not in–” But Steve cuts that statement off as he has no idea if he’d be lying or not and tries for another. “I have not been making any faces!”

“Oh, please,” Clint says as he helps Laura get Cooper to eat his porridge. “We all know what love looks like, mate.” 

“Ay, ład,” Laura agrees. “And you’ve been wearin’ it since yesterday.” 

Shaking his head, Steve tries to respond with something that doesn’t make him sound like a petulant child and ends up burying his face in his hands. Laughing. Blushing. They all have a good laugh at that. Steve doesn’t mind. If they’re having fun, even if it is at his expense, it’s all right with him. They mean no harm. And they might even be…right.

“Are you seein’ Prince Charming again?” Sam asks. “Hm?”

Steve shrugs. “I dunno. I sure hope so. I gotta return the suit anyway.” 

“Yes, where did that come from?” Natalia asks. “Can’t really picture someone like you owning that thing.” 

That blunt honesty of hers makes Steve laugh. She means no offense with her comment and Steve takes none. Besides, she’s absolutely right. 

“Believe it or not,” Steve says, “Peggy Carter let me borrow it.”

This has them all freeze in the middle of eating their breakfasts. All except the children who have no idea what they’re talking about anyway. Just because none of them belong to the world of exclusivity above them doesn’t mean they don’t know some of the people in it. They know who Peggy Carter is because she used to be just like them. Outsiders. Unwelcome and undeserving of even the slightest bit of charity. 

The Carter family’s good fortune is a hot-topic amongst many circles. It bought them a ticket to a brand new way of life and, unlike some people, they hadn’t forgotten where they came from. 

“Really?” Sam asks. “You didn’t say that.”

“Never really got the chance,” Steve says. “Last night was…interesting. To say the least.” 

Interesting is hardly even a strong enough word to describe everything that happened. That’s not even considering all that went on with Bucky after dinner. Steve never expected to end up in a position where he felt he needed to impress anyone. 

It’s not so much that he was out to seek their approval. He didn’t– _doesn’t_ –care about that. What mattered to him was not looking foolish in front of Bucky. He thinks he did a pretty good job. Only a few bumbles here and there. Not knowing what the hell to do with all that silverware. If Bucky hadn’t shown him the proper way to handle his napkin, Steve probably would’ve stuffed it into the neck of his shirt. Then there was Mrs. Barnes’s interrogation. 

No matter what some of the others thought of him–and he was fairly sure at least Peggy and the Wakandan King and Prince approved of him–she detested him and was clearly determined to keep him down where he belonged. Steve couldn’t tell if that was because he was poor or if it had something to do with his relationship with Bucky. If he can even call it that. 

Steve does have to admit, though, that it felt good seeing Alex blanche every time he said something that the table had a positive reaction to. When they laughed along with him. When they hung onto every word he said. When they toasted to him. Steve really thought the guy was gonna keel over. 

Yeah, those nerves beforehand were definitely worth that much. 

The nerves aren’t there when he slips away from the table after he finishes his breakfast – practically stuffing it down so he can leave without drawing too much attention to himself. He doesn’t exactly pull it off since there’re shouts of well-wishing and good luck as he leaves. 

He’s a little surprised that no one has stopped him now that he’s crossed into the First Passenger area again. Maybe it’s because he’s carefully carrying the borrowed suit back to Peggy’s suite. They might think he works for White Star Line. Then again, he isn’t even as well-dressed as the help aboard the ship. 

Still, he runs into no troubles the entire way and knocks lightly on the door when he arrives. It’s a maid who answers and she looks a little perplexed by the visit.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah, I was just tryin’ to return this,” Steve says. “Peg–er, Mrs. Carter let me borrow it last night.”

The maid’s face lights up with understanding and she smiles. “Ah, you must be Mr. Steve.”

“Oh.” Steve didn’t expect to be addressed so formally past last night. “Yeah. Yes, I mean. That’s me.” 

“Right this way, then.” She steps aside and welcomes him into the suite. “Can I get you anything? Juice? Tea? Coffee?”

She’s taken the suit from him and makes her offer sweetly. The pleasant formalities, Steve doesn’t think, are fake.

“Um. Really?”

Her smile is enough of an indication that she understands his hesitation and confusion. She nods.

“Miss Peggy is a wonderful woman, really,” she says. “Her instructions were to be as accommodating to you as we would any of her friends.”

Steve is a little taken aback by that. Peggy was an absolute sweetheart to him last night but for her to tell her staff to treat him as a friend is more than he could ever ask for. He’ll have to remember to thank her once again. If he gets the chance.

“Do you…” Steve clears his throat. Hopes he doesn’t come off too apparent. “Do you know where Mrs. Carter is at the moment?”

“I do. She’s gone to Mass.”

“And…” He doesn’t want to push his luck but he does anyway. “Do you know where they hold that?”

“Same place you were last night. The Dining Saloon.” Her eyes twinkle a little as she nibbles slightly on a grin. “I suspect Mr. Barnes is there as well.” 

Chest filled with elation, Steve can’t hold back the smile that shoots through him. His entire body smiles alone with his face.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, already heading for the door. “Thank you.” 

There’s a skip to his step as he takes the same path he followed yesterday. A few people spare sideways glances as he goes by, but Steve hardly pays them any mind. This smile still hasn’t left his face as he trots happily down the Grand Staircase. 

By the clock is a familiar face. Another person who treated him kindly last night and not just for the thrill of being able to say he’s liberal and courageous enough to have associated with a Steerage passenger. That little black book is open and Mr. Stark is trying to balance it against his arm as he scribbles in it.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark,” Steve greets as he steps onto the landing with him.

Mr. Stark looks up, a little startled out of his thoughts, and, upon seeing who’s greeted him, smiles.

“Why, Steve,” he replies. “Hello. So good to see you again.”

From where they are, Steve can hear the hymn the Mass is currently singing. “Almighty Father Strong to Save”. A hymn Steve’s familiar with. It’s been some time since he’s attended church, but he can remember sitting still – the best he could, anyway – and silent beside his mother every Sunday. 

He shares another smile with Mr. Stark and then continues down the staircase. When Steve gets closer, he can see Bucky beyond the glass windows on the doors. He’s standing between his mother and fiancé, singing along with the congregation. A hymn book is held lightly in his hands, his eyes floating down to it between every few lines.

Stationed at the door are two of the stewards that were there last night. Steve smiles as he approaches but that smile is chased away when they both hold their hands out, halting him in his spot. 

“Sir, you can’t be here,” one of them says, and it’s only then that Steve remembers just how out of place he is here. 

No longer does he have the appearance of a gentleman. His hair isn’t styled and his clothes are a far cry from what he wore last night. He even shifts his weight from foot to foot. 

“Look, I just…I just wanna talk to someone for a sec.” 

“No,” the other steward says, firm and harsh. “You need to leave.”

“But, I was here just last night,” Steve tries to remind them, already growing frustrated by this. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” he answers as though Steve is out of his mind for even suggesting such a thing. “Now, please go back the way you came.”

“Yeah, but–” Steve spots Alex’s valet, Brock, coming toward them now and he points to him when he comes out. “He’ll tell you!” But Brock’s demeanor–dreary and dark–remains the same, not flickering for even a second. Steve sighs. “Look, I just– I just need–”

“Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barnes,” he interrupts, “continue to be appreciative of your assistance. _They_ asked me to give you this as a token of their gratitude–”

He holds out two twenty dollar bills, and that’s more money Steve’s ever been offered at once in his entire life. Steve looks at the bills and shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t want any money, I–”

“–and also to remind you that you hold a Third Class ticket and your presence here is no longer _appropriate_.” 

Desperate now, helplessness descends over him. Steve is sure he looks as pathetic as a puppy begging for scraps right about now, but he can’t help it. Not if it earns him just one more second with Bucky.

“Please,” he says. “I just…I just need to talk to Bucky for–”

“Gentlemen, please see that Mr. Rogers gets back where he belongs.” He holds those bills out in each hand, now offering one to each of them. “And that he stays there.”

Happy to take the money, each of the stewards give an enthusiastic “yes, sir!” and then grab Steve by the arms. To Steve, as he struggles just enough to look over his shoulder at Bucky one last night, they grunt, “Let’s go, you.”

Eyes still on Bucky as he’s dragged away, Steve wills with all his heart and wishes harder than he did on that falling star that Bucky might look up and see him being hustled out. 

But he doesn’t even lift his eyes. 

Steve is practically shoved down the steps and back to the Third Class dock. He stumbles over his feet enough that he’d topple over if not for being caught by someone. Steve knows immediately that he’s in Sam’s arms. He’d recognize their gentle warmth anywhere. 

“What the hell!” Sam shouts, to either the men who tossed Steve or possibly to Steve out of disbelief. Either way, that doesn’t stop him from helping Steve back to his feet again. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Both Natalia and Clint have joined them. Natalia is offering him a drag of her cigarette. Steve takes it, if only to calm his irritation. 

When they all sit, Steve tells them everything that occurred. From Peggy’s maid to Mr. Stark to being stopped by the stewards and Brock offering money for him to leave. Someone rubs his back. Natalia, he thinks. 

“ _Мне жаль_ ,” she murmurs, offering a gentle hug. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

All of them offer words of comfort and Steve knows they mean well but it doesn’t help. Especially when they imply that it’s over.

“You gave it yer best shot, mate,” Clint says. 

“Yeah.” Sam claps a hand on his shoulder. “At least you know now.”

Steve looks at them as though they’ve all gone crazy. Because they must’ve if they think this is the end.

“Oh, this isn’t over,” he says. “I’m not just giving up.” 

That makes everyone fall silent. Now they look at him like he’s the one who’s gone crazy. They blink. Each of them goes to say something before Sam finally does.

“What’re talkin’ about, Steve?” he asks. “He said–”

“No,” Steve interrupts. “ _He_ didn’t get to say anything. I didn’t _talk_ to Bucky. He’s the one who gets to decide if it’s over. Not them.”

“Stevie boy,” Clint says. “You’re not being logical. Tell ‘im, Talia.” 

But Natalia leans back and flicks her hair over her shoulder with this smirk on her face. She shrugs.

“I’ve already told you, you are all children,” she says. “And _love_ is for children.” That smirk deepens. “And _Любовь_ isn’t logical.” 

Steve returns the smirk and looks back to Sam and Clint again. “So how ‘bout it? You gonna help me out?” 

For a moment, the pair of them just stare at him. Then, Sam scoffs with a shake of his head and rub at the back of his neck. 

“You’re a dang fool, Steve Rogers,” he mutters. “But you know me. I do what you do. Only slower.” 

Clint huffs a chuckle and shrugs. “Ay. I suppose we’ve all made fools of ourselves for love.”

“What do you need us to do, Steve?” Natalia asks. 

Steve grins, appreciative of his friends. Old and new. He nods and stands to give it his best shot. It might be the last one he ever gets so he’s got to make it count. Walking with determination, he’s followed closely by Sam, Natalia, and Clint. They quickly climb the steps to B-Deck and push open the gate separating Third Class from Second.

“You’re sure about this, Steve?” Clint asks one more time. “There’s no denyin’ he a god among mortals, but if he closed the door…”

Moving furtively to the wall below the A-Deck, Steve shakes his head. “It wasn’t him. It was them. He’s not one of them, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Not _like_ one of ‘em, maybe,” Sam says. “But he _is_ one of them. Not tryin’ change your mind, I know you’re too thick-headed for that. Just tellin’ you how it is.”

“I know, I know,” Steve agrees. “I just…I have to try.”

“Well, if you are going,” Natalia says, “then you go now. The coast is clear.”

Sam and Clint shrug resignedly and put their hands together, crouching down. Steve steps into their laced hands and gets boosted up to the next deck, where he scrambles nimbly over the railing, onto the First Class deck. 

Below, he hears his friends being chased back down below where they _belong_. Steve sighs but pushes onward. He’s already spotted Bucky with a few others being given a tour by Mr. Stark and Captain Smith. All he needs to do is wait for them to reach him and he might be able to whisk Bucky away to steal just a moment of his time. And maybe, if Steve is the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, he’ll say yes to him. 

There’s no denying anymore that this is what Steve wants. He wants to start a life with Bucky. Steve has no idea what that life might look like but he knows he wants it. A life with Bucky by his side. 

That can’t happen if Steve gets caught being up here before he gets his chance to talk to Bucky first. So he’s got to keep away from suspicious eyes. Hide in plain sight.

A man is there playing with his son, who is spinning a top with a string. The man's overcoat and hat are sitting on a deck chair nearby. While he’s distracted playing with the boy, Steve emerges from behind one of the huge deck cranes and calmly picks up the coat and bowler hat. He walks away, slipping into the coat, and licks his fingers to slick his hair back and tucks pieces of it behind his ears. Steve puts the hat on at a jaunty angle so that at a distance he may pass for a gentlemen.

Now, all he needs to do is wait for the perfect opportunity. 

~~~

A cool wind blows across the deck, pushing Bucky’s hair into his face. He doesn’t bother brushing it away again as he follows along with his mother and Alex on their guided tour of the upper deck. He’s not sure that everyone is lucky enough to be given a tour by Captain Smith and Mr. Stark themselves, but, well, that’s just one of the many advantages he’ll have being married to Alex. 

That’s what he’s trying to concentrate on today. As Winifred so kindly reminded him earlier, he’s lucky to be marrying Alex. Alex will take care of them–of him. Yes, it’s true that Bucky’ll have to give up some of his hopes and dreams, but they don’t matter. They never really did. They were always the dreams of a child, and if he wants everyone to stop treating him like a child, he must first stop acting like one. 

James Buchanan Barnes has been raised to behave and act like a gentleman, and that’s what he’s going to be. That’s what he _is_. A gentleman. It’s time to fully embrace that. 

He’s grown up with great fortune and because of Alex he’ll still have it. When he and Alex have children – no doubt Alex will hire someone to carry a child for him to spread his seed and have his family name carried on – they will grow up with all the privileges and niceties they deserve. The finest Philadelphia society has to offer. 

Of course, with Alex as their father, any children they might have will be brought up with the highest expectations. Bucky will be expected to raise them strictly, to be seen and not heard, to adhere to their roles handed down by generations. Maybe, with Bucky’s guidance, they’ll learn that money is not everything. Maybe he can help them before the need for wealth consumes them entirely–becomes their will and motive for everything. Maybe they’ll grow up with a passion for something. The arts. Music or poetry or paintings. Anything that will make them see there’s more to the world than what’s in the bank. 

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll mean something. 

“Reminds me of my Harvard days.”

Alex’s voice pulls Bucky out of the future with children and back on the Titanic where they’re getting a tour. In the gym, currently. There are strange looking machines and others that are quite familiar, like the stationary rowing machine Alex is at, working the oars with a well-trained stroke. A woman pedals a standing bicycle while in her long dress. She looks positively ridiculous. 

There’s a man over by the punching bag – a speed bag, Bucky thinks it’s called – and it’s bouncing all over the place every time he hits it. Not correctly, either. Well, not the way Steve showed Bucky how to throw a punch yesterday, anyway. 

The gym instructor is a bouncy little man in white flannels, eager to show off his modern equipment. He hits a switch and a machine with a saddle on it starts to undulate. Bucky puts his hand on it, curious. 

“The electric horse here,” he says, “is very popular. We have an electric camel as well.” He points to where there are two men by the machine–one on it, the other watching with a laugh. “Would you care to try your hand at rowing, ma’am?”

This question is directed at Winifred who looks completely aghast at even being asked such a thing.

“Don't be absurd.” She rests her hand over her chest like she’s suddenly short of breath. Bucky wants to roll his eyes. “I can't think of a skill I should likely need less.” 

Catching eyes with Mr. Stark, Bucky sees him smile with a little flick of his eyes and gestures to the door.

“The next stop on our tour will be bridge,” he says. “This way, please.”

Quiet conversations between the rest of them go on as they make their way there. Bucky trails behind. No one notices. If they do, they don't comment. 

Captain Smith introduces them to First Officer Murdoch and Second Officer Lightoller, as well as the helmsman. He shows them how the binnacle works and the ship's telegrams that keeps them in communication with the engine room. They're shown the telegraph room and are offered the chance to give a tap to the machine. Alex declines on Bucky's behalf even though Bucky smiled and stepped forward to give it a try.

“Now I’m curious," Winifred says, ignoring Bucky's glower. “Why do you have two steering wheels?” 

Mr. Stark grins and pats one of them. “This one is mainly used near the shore. You see–”

“Excuse me, Captain.” A steward comes in with a small piece of paper. “Another ice warning. This one from the Noordam.” 

“Thank you, Sparks.” Captain Smith tucks the paper into his outer pocket. When he notices Bucky looking at him – Bucky can’t help feeling concerned if this man is bringing him _another_ ice warning – he answers with a gentle smile. “Oh, not to worry. Very normal for this time of year. In fact, I’ve just ordered the last boilers lit. We’re speeding up.”

A smile pulls up on Winifred’s face, that answer reassuring any worry she may’ve shared. Probably the first thing she and Bucky have seen eye-to-eye on in recent months. While she clearly doesn’t give this matter another thought, she must not notice the frown on Mr. Stark’s face that Bucky catches. Obviously, he’s none too pleased by their decision to push the ship so early. As they leave, Officer Lightoller asks if Murdoch he’s found the binoculars that’ve apparently been missing since Southampton. 

Walking across the deck now, Mr. Stark shares with them the amount of lifeboats that’re onboard, and a new concern blossoms through Bucky’s heart and mind. 

It aches through him, cracking his heart through the middle when they pass a little boy playing with his father. They’re tossing a top across the deck, the child seeking approval with a big smile on his face. For a second, a mere blip of a heartbeat, Bucky’s reminded of his own father. Of his grin when they played. When Bucky beat him at chess for the very first time. When they went to the park to fly the kite they made together. When Bucky’s life made sense and an ocean of possibilities stretched before him. 

Rather than dwell on a past that no longer matters, Bucky says, “Mr. Stark, forgive me…” interrupting whatever he’d been saying to Alex. Bucky receives a stern look from Alex for that, but Mr. Stark simply gives him the attention with a kind smile. “I’ve done the sum in my head and…if I’m not mistaken, with this amount of lifeboats times the number of passengers you mentioned before…” Bucky quickly runs through the numbers again to double-check his math. “Forgive me, but there doesn’t appear to be enough boats for everyone on board.”

Mr. Stark’s grin widens, as though impressed by Bucky’s ability to multiply those numbers so quickly in his head like that. At least that’s one person here. Both Winifred and Alex are watching him with a warning in their eyes. 

“Not by half, actually,” Mr. Stark replies. “You miss nothing, do you, James? In fact, I put in these new type of davits,” he explains, pointing the where the lifeboats are at the side of the deck, “which would take an extra row of boats inside this one. But, it was thought by _some_ that it would make the deck look too cluttered. So, I was overruled.” 

By his tone of voice – somewhat hard and definitely firm – Bucky guesses that he’s still not happy with the decision regarding the lifeboats. Up ahead, Alex taps one of them with his walking stick. 

“Waste of space on an unsinkable ship as it is if you ask me.” 

_Well_ , Bucky thinks _,_ _nobody_ asked _you._

“Yes, but,” Bucky says, “if there’s–”

Bucky snaps his mouth shut when Alex turns a look on him. There’s still a smile on his face, one that probably looks sweet and kind and normal for one to wear when curious about what someone has to say, but Bucky knows that’s not what it is. Alex wants him to shut up. If Bucky doesn’t want a repeat of this morning, he had better behave. 

“Sleep soundly, young James,” Mr. Stark answers his unspoken concern. “I’ve built you a good ship–strong and true. She’s all the lifeboat you need.” Bucky offers his best smile in return, lagging behind a few steps to keep out of Alex’s way. “If we just go this way,” Mr. Stark instructs to the group, “we can visit the engine room next.” 

Fighting back a round of tears, Bucky reminds himself why he’s doing this. This will keep his mother out of a workhouse. This will keep his sister in the best boarding schools. This will keep his family from being torn apart. 

Bucky inhales a rough, steadying breath, and just as he goes to take a step to follow everyone, someone takes his hand and turns him around. He gasps, his heart speeding up, when he sees Steve there, finger to his lips as he beckons Bucky to come with him into the gym they’d toured just a little while ago. 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers as Steve shuts the door behind them. “This is impossible. I can’t see you.”

That doesn’t deter Steve at all. Only, it’s different than Alex. While Alex would never release his grip upon Bucky, Steve does so right away. Alex’s eyes never looked at him like he meant everything to him. They never saw him as anything at all, really–even in the beginning, when Bucky first believed the mask and the words spoken as rose petals with nothing but thorns underneath. Not Steve, though. Steve’s eyes glow with sunlight. Bright and warm, and Bucky would give anything to chase that glow.

“I just need to talk to you, Bucky,” Steve says, those eyes pleading. “Please. Just for a second.” 

Bucky needs to tuck his lip under his teeth to keep it from trembling. He shakes his head. If Alex or Winifred catch them, it’ll mean a world of trouble. For both of them. 

“I can’t, Steve.” His voice almost cracks. “I’m…I’m _engaged_ , Steve. I’m marrying Alex. I…I love Alex.” 

The words burn through Bucky’s throat, coming out like smoke and ash. They sail through the air, thick and poisonous, and Bucky’s not sure who he’s trying to convince with them. 

“Bucky…” Steve whispers. Presses a gentle hand to the side of Bucky’s neck. “Bucky, you’re no picnic.” He snickers. Keeps looking at Bucky as though that fact only makes him want to be near him more. “Okay? You’re…you’re a spoiled little _brat,_ even. But…” A hopeful smile touches his lips. Lips so soft. So gentle. Bucky wonders what they’d feel like against his skin. “But under that, you’re the most…the most amazing, _astounding_ , wonderful person I’ve ever met and I–”

“Steve, I–”

This time, Bucky’s voice does crack. He can’t let Steve continue saying these wonderful things. There’s too much at stake. Bucky can’t afford to have Steve open his heart to the things he cannot have. 

“Please, Bucky,” Steve implores, taking off the bowler hat upon his head and running fingers through his hair. “Lemme try an’ get this out. You– you’re amaze…” A shaky laugh rolls across those soft lips. “I’m not stupid. Okay, I’m not an idiot. I know how the world works. I’ve got…” He pats his chest pocket. “I’ve got ten clams to my name and _nothin’_ to offer you and I know that, Bucky, I do. I understand. But I’m too involved now. You jump, I jump. I’m with ya to the end of the line, remember?”

Bucky feels the tears rushing to his eyes. Steve is so open and real…not like anyone he’s ever known. When Bucky says nothing, because he can’t – if he does, the tears burning through his eyes will spill over and roll steadily down his cheeks – Steve lowers his head. 

He sighs, softly. Says, “I just can’t walk away without knowing you’ll be all right.” His eyes find Bucky’s again. “That’s all I want.” 

“You’re making this very hard, Steve.” Bucky tightens his jaw. So many emotions have gathered in his throat. He can’t figure out how to sort through them. “I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine. Really.”

Steve looks over him for a second. Meets his eyes with the devotion and desperation playing together. He pets a hand over Bucky’s head. Sweet and adoring. Nothing condescending about it. Bucky wishes to lean into the touch but doesn’t dare.

“Really?” Steve questions. “I don’t think so. You have a fire inside of you, Bucky, and they’re tryin’ to smother it.” He’s pointed to the side, at the world he knows is trying to keep its tight grip around Bucky’s soul. “They’ve got you trapped, Bucky, and you’re gonna die if you don’t break free. Maybe not right away, because you’re strong.” 

Strong? Steve thinks he’s strong? Bucky tries to remember the last time he felt strong. The last time someone made him _feel_ strong. Nothing comes to mind. Not until the moment he met Steve. 

“But sooner or later,” Steve says, capturing Bucky’s cheeks between strong, artist’s hands, “that fire that makes you _you_ , the fire that I love, it’s gonna burn out and who knows what ashes will be left.” 

Lip trembling, Bucky steps away from Steve’s comforting touch. He needs to keep this door locked up tight and crawl back through the window that got him here in the first place. Yes, there might be jagged edges and shards of glass on that side, but it’s his responsibility to keep himself from bleeding. He can do that by behaving the way he’s meant to. As a gentleman. As Alex’s husband. As the well-bred, respectable son he’s been brought up to be. 

“It’s not up to you to save me, Steve.” 

Steve’s face falls. His hand lifts again, like he means to touch Bucky’s face again but refrains from getting near enough to do so. He looks so dejected. Heartbroken, even. But Bucky needs to make him understand. They were never meant to be. 

“You’re right,” he whispers. “Only you can do that.” 

Bucky reaches behind him for the doorknob. If he doesn’t escape this room with Steve and all his kindness, his strength, his warmth, Bucky might do something he’ll regret. 

“I’m going back. They’ll miss me if I’m gone any longer.” Bucky tries to keep a firm conviction in his voice but fails horribly. “Leave me alone, Steve.” 

~~~

Steve doesn’t know how he’s still standing with his heartbreaking like this. Shattering. Pieces of it splintering and crashing to tiny shards, leaving him broken inside. Maybe the rest of his body just hasn’t gotten the message yet. He honestly had no idea it was possible to hurt this much. But having Bucky walk away from him, being told to leave him alone, it feels like some part of him has gone missing. He has no idea how to get it back either. 

He makes his way back to his part of the ship, paying no attention to anything around him. He’s not sure how long it takes him, but it can’t be all that long. As far as he knows, nobody even pays him any mind. Not until he gets to the General Room.

Most people he passes give him a greeting and while Steve attempts to greet them back, he manages a weak smile and a shaky wave at most. Since he’s been one of the more active passengers down here, it must confuse the children who rush over to him now to say hello. To ask if he’ll draw them. Play a game with him. Their parents, or even just other adults who’ve taken on the role since most everyone now feels like a big family, guide them away from him. 

When he finally spots his friends, a part of Steve thinks it’s best to just avoid them and hide in his bunk for a while. Stick his head under a pillow until this dreadful day is over. Then again, if he tries that, they might worry, and Steve doesn’t want to worry them. So he heads to where they are in the back corner of the room. 

Sam and Natalia are holding hands. Laura has just wiped something away from the corner of Clint’s mouth. The Barton children are playing cards in the corner. They all fall silent as he approaches. None of them ask what happened with Bucky or how it went. They just allow him to sit and stir in quiet anguish.

A hand rubs his back. Another gently cradles the back of his neck. One more claps over his shoulder. Fingers card through his air. Steve’s never felt this miserable before. 

“Steve,” Sam says. “It’s gonna be all right.” 

Yeah. He’s right. It’ll be okay and Steve does know that. They’ll dock in New York and be home and Steve will get on with his life. Hopefully, he’ll meet someone nice and fall in love and they’ll settle down. Maybe start a family. 

The thing is, he’d kinda been hoping he’d do all that with Bucky. Like he said to him, he knows how this world works. He knows damn well he’s got nothing good to offer Bucky but compassion and his heart. He thought, maybe, that might be enough. 

Yesterday, when he promised to take him to Coney Island, to ride the rollercoaster, and drink cheap beer, and roll their own cigarettes, he meant every single word. He’d’ve done that and more. Hell, if it were up to Steve, he’d do everything in his power to make all of Bucky’s dreams come true. 

He’d help him become a dancer. He’d cheer him on as an actor in a moving picture film. He’d encourage him to write all the books that filled his heart.

Steve would gladly read every word Bucky ever put down with a smile on his face, happy that Bucky would be the one to hand him the page. 

“Yeah.” Steve nods. Wipes emotions away from his mouth and chuckles softly when his gaze drifts to Sam. “I was just kinda hopin’…”

“Mhm.” Sam doesn’t need for him to say anything else. He allows Steve to rest his head down on his shoulder. “I know.” 

“They’re going to be serving lunch soon,” Laura says.

Steve shakes his head. “Not really that hungry.”

But Laura isn’t having any of that. Pregnant belly and all, she stands in front of him and helps _him_ back to his feet.

“No reason for you to be heartbroken on an empty stomach.” 

Something of a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. Steve glances back at Clint who can only offer him a shrug.

“She’s the boss, lad.” 

“Yeah, look at it this way,” Sam adds. “Only three more days of this fancy livin’, yeah?”

“Then it’s back to scraps and the rats,” Natalia teases. “Eh, boys?”

“Now, what’re you talkin’ bout, miss?” Sam laughs. “My mama can make the best chicken and biscuits in all’ve New York!” 

“I’ll believe it when I taste it.” 

They share a look with each other and smile softly. Neither of them has missed the implication of Natalia’s statement. That she’ll still be hanging around long enough after they dock to taste Sam’s mother’s cooking. Steve smiles as well. He’s happy for them. 

In the Third Class Dining Saloon, where Steve remembers that he’s borrowed the jacket he’s wearing when he goes to hang it on one of the hooks on the wall with other coats and hats and scarves, they maneuver through the thick crowds to find a spot that will accommodate all of them. Right smack in the middle of the room, behind the long table they sat at for breakfast, there’s enough room. There’re already about seven people so even with the Barton children there’s plenty of space and even room for more. 

At first, most of the conversations are directed at Steve, and Steve is quick to realize what they’re doing. Distracting him. Keeping his mind off of the one thing – or person, rather – he can’t stop thinking about. 

While he’s grateful for the distraction, Steve’s also pleased when discussions begin to move away from him. He doesn’t want them to think he needs special treatment. He’s hardly the first, and won’t be the last, person in the world to be rejected. It was a long shot to begin with. Like everyone warned him earlier, he and Bucky come from two different worlds. 

Even with this self-awareness and acknowledgment, Steve, in the middle of roast beef with very decent gravy and boiled potatoes, needs to excuse himself before he’s finished. Everyone stops talking the second he stands. Steve chuckles. 

“I’m not gonna explode,” he says. “I’m just gonna get some air.”

“You want company?” Sam offers, even though he’s sitting so close to Natalia their legs touch. “I can–”

“Nah, Sam, that’s okay,” Steve assures him, once again taking note of just how lucky he is to have a friend in him. Sam has got to be one of the best man he’s ever met. “Stay here. I won’t be good company.” 

Sam barks a laugh. “Who said you’re ever good company?”

Glad for that normalcy and Sam’s friendly teasing, Steve grins and grabs one of the cabin biscuits. He tosses it up once and then takes a big bite of it.

“See?” he says, mouth still full of food. “Who needs love when you got that?”

The smile on Steve’s face and the laugh in his throat are very real. When he turns, however, they both vanish. He’s just not in the mood for smiles or laughter, and as he crosses the room for that jacket, he figures this is probably the best time to get that jacket back to its owner. Or, at the very least, put it somewhere a steward might find it. Steve’s no thief.

When he gets to the stairs that would bring him to at least the Second Class part of the ship, Steve pauses with his hand on the railing. Maybe not just yet. 

Steve throws on the jacket, stuffs his hands into the pockets, and makes his way to the bow of the ship. His favorite place. Where he can be alone in his thoughts which, honestly, aren’t the best of company. Sighing when he gets there, Steve leans his arms over the railing and stares out at the open ocean. Late afternoon sun pours around him, soaking the world in orange and gold. He closes his eyes, letting the chill wind clear his head.

~~~

Since turning Steve away – the hardest thing Bucky’s ever had to do, but it was the right thing, he swears it – life feels more like a dream. A dream Bucky just can’t wake from. A dream filled with knots in his stomach and a pressure on his chest and a lump in his throat. Even at lunch in the exclusive buffet restaurant – where Bucky dined on roast beef and mashed potatoes that probably tasted divine but sat bland upon his tongue – the afternoon just dragged along.

Perhaps he’s being a tad dramatic since it’s only been a few hours, but there seems to be this foreboding sense of finality to the whole thing. As though Bucky’s officially signed his life over to the very lifestyle he’s grown to detest. 

The thought, honestly, terrifies him. To never laugh freely again. Having his opinions decided for him for the rest of his life. Never getting to experience the rush of life. It’s all gone if he stays here.

Bucky blinks and only realizes now that he’s sitting on a divan in the First Class Lounge, probably the most elegant room on the ship. There’s a group of women arrayed around him. Winfred, the Countess de Froste, and the designer, Lady Duff-Gordon, are taking tea. There’s an untouched cup in front of Bucky as well. He hadn’t even noticed. 

Nothing’s really registered until this moment. He isn’t positive when Alex left with the other men, but he’s certainly glad of it. If he hadn’t gone, then Bucky’s current expressionless and motionless existence might be a subject brought up later. He’s silent and still as a porcelain figurine as the conversation washes around him.

“Tell Lucile about the disaster you’ve had with the stationary,” Countess de Froste says.

The wedding. Of course, that’s what they’d be talking about. Bucky sighs, wondering why his mind chose this moment to come out of the haze. 

Winifred has just lifted her teacup and saucer and takes a sip before she sighs dramatically at the topic the Countess as brought into light. And she claims Bucky is dramatic.

“Well, of course, the invitations had to be sent back.”

Lady Duff-Gordon gasps. “No!”

“Mhm. _Twice_.”

“Oh my dear.”

She sets her saucer down now and nods as if this is some story worthy of praise and encouragement since she’s somehow gotten through it all.

“It’s been a disaster. Oh!” She shakes her head. “And the tuxedo–let me tell you what an odyssey _that_ has been. You see, James decided he wanted lavender, isn’t that right, James?”

Eyes focused on the lace that covers the small table they’re sitting at, Bucky holds back a sigh and nods.

“Yes, Mother.”

“And he knows I simply detest the color, so really, he picked it just to spite me.”

Bucky barely holds in a scoff. He’s unable to hold back the roll of his eyes. It’s just lucky that no one is paying attention.

 _Right, Mother_ , he thinks. _Because_ everything _is about_ you.

As they continue talking about the wedding, Bucky begins to drift away again only something to the side catches his attention. At a few tables over, a little girl sits with her mother. The child can’t be more than four-years-old. She’s dressed in frills and lace, wearing white gloves as she daintily picks up a cookie. When the mother looks over, she immediately starts correcting her on her posture. And the way she holds the teacup. The little girl is trying so hard to please, her expression serious as she lays her cloth napkin across her lap.

Bucky recalls his life at that age. Remembers the slap to his knuckles he received when he didn’t hold his teacup properly. He can still hear his mother’s voice teaching him.

“The way to be a gentleman,” she would say, “is to first _look_ like a gentleman.”

Which meant holding his little finger out because they were the elite. One, or _maybe_ two, fingers of the right hand went through the hole of the handle while balancing the cup with the thumb under the handle. Look into the cup when drinking, never over it. Shoulders back. Back straight. Chin up. Never look at his feet while walking. Always wear a hat outdoors in the sun. Speak softly. Don’t argue. Stand. Sit. Wait. Do. Don’t. Always. Never.

The relentless conditioning…the pain that he endured during the path to becoming a perfect replica of the rest of them. To be worthy to have the hand of a lady. Or that of another gentleman. 

And all of it has gotten Bucky here. Where he’s engaged to be married to Alexander Pierce. Who may outwardly be the gentleman the world thinks he is while inside he’s a cruel, boarish man no better than any common brute on the street. None of Bucky’s teaching and discipline has been worth anything, and he stares at the cup of tea in front of him.

He picks it up, all his fingers curled around the handle, and grins. He holds it up for just a moment before placing it back down on the table and then calmly and very deliberately knocking it over.

“Oh,” he says, feigning shock while his mother and the other women gasp as though he’s slapped someone. “Look what I’ve done.” 

“ _James_ ,” Winifred starts to scold. “What have–”

“Excuse me, Mother,” he interrupts. Which he’s been taught his entire life not to do and smiles when he does anyway. “I mustn’t let this sit or it’ll stain. I’ll go change.” 

In truth, there’s much more on the table than on him. Only a few drops got on him and he’ll live with it. Bucky’s no longer going to waste any of this precious time he’s found. His mother is still saying things as he walks away, but he pays her no mind. 

When Bucky steps outside, that feeling he’d been so desperate to escape suddenly vanishes. He can breathe freely. The knots in his belly have untied. That lump in his throat has dissolved to nothing. 

Bucky lets loose a laugh. Unrestrained. Damn right giddy. He allows it to bellow from his lungs and shake his body and he doesn’t give a right fuck about the people around who stare at him as though he’s a fool. Maybe he is a fool. He doesn’t care. He’ll gladly be a fool if that means he gets to be free. 

Turning with a skip in his step, Bucky almost breaks into a run for Third Class. He does manage to calm himself enough not to actually do that. That doesn’t mean he takes his time, though. Far from it. He really _does_ skip down the metal steps that’ll take him to the Steerage General Room. Eyes scanning the room, his shoulders slump a bit when he sees that Steve isn’t there. He even checks three times just to make sure. 

That’s quite all right. He’s not about to be deterred just because Steve happens to not be in _this_ room. Steve might not be here but his friends are. Maybe they know where he is. 

As Bucky approaches, though, that confidence coursing through him falters. Natalia spies him first, and the look she gives him is far from friendly. She tugs on the back of Sam’s shirt, interrupting what he’d been saying to Clint and Laura, and gestures to him. Like Natalia, their expressions aren’t what he’d call welcoming. They’d been much kinder last night.

Then again, perhaps it’s what he deserves. They’re Steve’s friends. Bucky’s hurt him. He hadn’t intended to, but he did just the same. These looks serve him right. Bucky wonders if there’s anyone in the world who would give someone such a look if he’d been hurt. Not a soul comes to mind. Except, maybe, Steve.

“H-hello,” Bucky says when he stops in front of them. None of them respond. “I was…I was wondering if you knew where Steve happened to be?”

Once again, he doesn’t get a response. Not until Natalia sits up straight with her arms crossed tightly against her chest.

“Why?” she asks. “Are you going to just hurt him some more?”

Bucky’s heart throbs with the question. The accusation that’s laced within it. Bucky, eyes downcast, nibbles his lip and shakes his head. 

“No, ma’am,” he replies, softly. “I don’t believe so.” 

Sam brightens up a bit and nudges Natalia in the side with his elbow. Amused expression on his face that must be contagious since the rest of them smile in suit. Bucky doesn’t know what they’re smiling about.

“You hear that, Talia?” Sam asks. “You got ‘im to call you _ma’am_.” 

A blush heats through Bucky’s cheeks. While he doesn’t think too much of calling a lady _ma’am_ , she mustn’t have such formalities used on her often, especially by someone in such a different social class. But a proud smile twitches on Natalia’s face, eyebrows flicking.

“Of course,” she replies cooly. “He’s a respectable young man, aren’t you, Bucky?”

She’s teasing him now. Bucky can tell by that twinkle in her bright green eyes and pursed smile on her lips. He nods.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“So, you’re lookin’ for Steve, huh?” Sam asks. “He went to clear his head.”

“O-oh.” Bucky glances around, not sure if that means Steve’s elsewhere on F Deck or if he’s somewhere in particular. “Um…”

He’s cut off by a soft chuckle when Sam leans forward, arms over his legs, and licks his lips. 

“Try the bow,” Sam says. “He likes it there.”

A big smile pulls up on Bucky’s mouth. He thinks for a second that he should pull it back the way he’s done all his life. Then he remembers that such a thing isn’t necessary and he just smiles more.

“Thank you,” he replies as he turns. “Thank you so much.” 

Bucky almost trips hurrying up the stairs. The soft dusk light makes the ocean seem as if it’s lit by the embers of a giant fire, burning the way for a brand new life. One Bucky has no idea has in store for him, but still can’t wait to start. Walking across the empty deck, he spots Steve exactly where Sam said he’d be, right at the apex of the bow railing. 

When Bucky sees him, he slows and approaches quietly. It only occurs to him now that maybe Steve will turn him away this time. He’s been hurt once, he may not want to take such a risk again. Hands trembling, Bucky sucks in a deep breath and takes the leap he’d been too scared to earlier. 

“Hello, Steve.”

The very second his name slips off of Bucky’s tongue, Steve whirls around, his expression hard to read. There’s surprise on his face, but also, what Bucky thinks is uncertainty. Almost as though he can’t tell if Bucky’s really there or not. 

“I’ve…I’ve changed my mind,” Bucky says. Nibbles on his lip and fiddles with his fingers when Steve doesn’t respond. “Am I too late?” 

Steve still doesn’t answer but he smiles at him, his eyes drinking him in. Bucky’s cheeks are red from the chill in the wind, and his eyes sparkle. His hair blows wildly about his brow and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even lift a hand to fix it.

“S-Sam said you might be–”

“Sh.” Steve puts his finger to his lips and then holds his hand out to him. “C’mere.”

Bucky places his hand in Steve’s and Steve guides him closer. When Bucky’s right in front of him, his other hand drops to his waist, and Bucky thinks he might kiss him. Steve doesn’t, though. 

Instead, he smiles some more and whispers, “Hello, beautiful. Close your eyes.”

With all the trust in the world, Bucky does. Steve turns them around to face the bow again. He eases him gently to the rail, standing right behind him and helping him to take a step onto the bottom rung.

“Step up onto the rail,” he instructs, and Bucky does. “Keep them closed.”

Then, he takes both his hands and raises them until he’s standing with his arms outstretched on each side. When he lowers his hands, Bucky’s arms stay up like wings given to him by an angel.

Wind rushes around them. The sounds of the ship behind them are nothing compared to the water beneath them. 

“You’re not peeking, are you?”

Bucky giggles. He actually _giggles_ and shakes his head. “I’m not. I promise.”

“Do you trust me?”

 _More than anything_.

“I trust you.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers into his ear. “Open them.”

Smile already on his face, Bucky opens his eyes and gasps. Nothing is left in his field of vision but water. From this position, all that exists is water and Steve. There’s no ship under them at all. They’re soaring above the world. 

Together. 

The Atlantic unrolls toward him, a hammered copper shield under a dusk sky. There is only the wind, the hiss of the water below, and Steve.

And Bucky is free. 

“I’m…” Bucky releases another giggle. “I’m flying!”

Steve chuckles along and leans his brow against his temple. He’s smiling. With Bucky. Not because he thinks him childish or foolish but because he’s sharing with him his joy.

He sings, softly, “Come Josephine in my flying machine, going up she goes… _up_ she goes…” 

Eyes closing, Bucky feels himself floating weightless far above the sea. The world. Everything that he ever thought mattered slowly drifting away from him. He smiles, dreamily, then leans back, gently pressing his back against Steve’s chest. Steve pushes forward slightly against him, their bodies fitting together like they were meant to for years and years.

Slowly, Steve raises his hands, stretching his arms to meet Bucky’s. Their fingertips touch. Gently. They intertwine. 

Steve moves closer, tipping his face into Bucky’s hair until his cheek is against Bucky’s ear. Bucky turns his head. Finds his lips near his. He lowers his arms, Steve’s wrapping around his body. Head turned and tilted back, Bucky can only surrender to him, to the emotion charging through him, to the inevitable. 

Their lips meet, and they kiss, slow and tremulous, until the passion that’s been building since they’ve met boils over and their kiss deepens. 

Steve and the ship seem to merge into one force of power and optimism, lifting Bucky, buoying him forward on a magical journey, soaring onward into the night without fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is doing well and staying safe <3
> 
> Some images for you this update:
> 
> Bucky's Church Suit:
> 
> Menus distributed on the last day Titanic served meals
> 
> Third Class
> 
> Second Class
> 
> First Class Lunch Menu
> 
> First Class Dinner


	6. April 14th, 1912

**April 14th, 1912**

**Nighttime**

Steve’s lips still tingle from the kiss he shared with Bucky. His palms are still warm from where he held his hips. There’s still a tickle on his cheek where Bucky’s hair brushed against his skin. If Steve had any say in it, he’d be singing and dancing the rest of the night. 

As it is, he’ll settle for following Bucky back to the suites he shares with his mother and fiancé wearing the biggest smile he’s ever had. They separated for a little while with the promise of meeting back at the bow. It’d been Steve’s idea for Bucky to have dinner with his normal crowd. 

“I don’t care anymore,” Bucky protested. “I want to stay with you.” 

“Yeah, but, if you have dinner with them and then leave, no one will come looking for you.” 

Bucky huffed a little and Steve had been very tempted to tell him how cute he looked when irritated. Face all scrunched. Brow ruffled. Lips pursed. He looked so feisty. The very reason Steve wanted to be near him. So many sides to him. He wanted to know all of them.

“I suppose you have a point,” he admitted. “I don’t like it though.”

“Neither do I,” Steve agreed. “But we’ll have all night then.” He hesitated. “And…maybe longer. After that?”

A blush burned Bucky’s cheeks at the implication. They hadn’t – and still haven’t – discussed any future plans once Titanic docks, but Steve can hope. 

“After that.” Bucky nodded. “Two more days after tonight.” 

Right. They’ll be docking at Pier 59 in New York on Wednesday morning. Steve has no idea what to expect when they get there but he’ll savor this time they have together. He’s not exactly sure what they’re doing now either, but Bucky asked that he bring his sketchbook and drawing materials with him. 

Steve has everything with him. Book. Conte crayons. Razor for any sharpening that might need to be done. All bundled in his dingy canvas roll-up bag. Both book and bag are tucked under his arms as they walk. 

“I was in Peggy’s room the other day,” Steve says as they arrive. “Should I be expecting something grander?”

Bucky laughs as he opens the door to let them in. “It’s quite proper, I assure you.” He gestures to the room they’ve entered. “This is the sitting room.”

For a moment, all Steve is capable of doing is staring at where Bucky’s brought him. This place is prettier than anything he’s ever seen in his life. He’s a little scared of touching something. It might break under his soiled fingers. 

The grandeur and opulence is a little overwhelming, and his eyes are roaming over everything as he places his sketchbook and bag down on the marble table. This room alone almost fits the apartment he lived in with his mother in Brooklyn. And it just goes on and on.

There’re two rooms attached to this one and a door that, Steve thinks, leads to a private deck. If he’s right, there’s even a private lavatory and marble bathtub. 

It’s almost overwhelming. The dark wood trimming along the wall and ceiling. The plush carpet beneath their feet. The ornate furniture placed just right to give the room a perfect air of elegance. Truly, this is a suite meant for royalty. 

“Wow,” he whispers. “This is…” 

“Too much?” 

Bucky’s voice pulls Steve out of his awed stupor. He sounds worried. Like Steve might somehow think less of him having come from such elegance. Not that he didn’t already know, but to know and to actually see might be two different things. They’re not – not for Steve – but Bucky can’t know that. 

“It’s just a lot, is all,” Steve says. “But you shouldn’t be ashamed of it. It’s where you come from.” 

Glancing down at his feet, Bucky shakes his head. Takes him a minute or two to finally lift his gaze again.

“I am, though,” he murmurs. “Ashamed, I mean. At least, a little. I never really knew how much I had until it was gone and everyone expected me to do anything at all just to get it back. I never once thought of those in need. Not that I…” His eyebrows pull together. “I never really thought the way my mother does. That the poor…er, the less fortunate were beneath us. But I didn’t give them much thought either.”

“Hey,” Steve says, gentle capturing Bucky’s cheeks within his hands. “It’s okay.”

“Mm-mm.” A few tears fill Bucky’s eyes, but he blinks them away. “It’s not. You see, if I leave, I have nothing and therefore can _do_ nothing. If I stay, I marry Alex and have everything and still cannot do anything with it. I lost that chance.” 

“You don’t have nothing if you leave,” Steve tells him. “You have your heart. That’s what’ll make a difference in the world. Your heart.” 

Bucky stares at him, eyes swimming with an emotion Steve doesn’t understand. He looks confused and yet awed at the same time. He breathes out a soft chuckle. 

“How do you do that, Steve?” he asks. “How do you see the world for what it could be instead of what it is?”

Brow resting over Bucky’s, Steve grins and brushes his knuckles across Bucky’s cheek. He doesn’t really have an answer for that. In truth, he’s not even sure that’s what he does, but if it pleases Bucky, he’s okay with it. Especially when he looks at him this way. Eyes burning so intensely they put the brightest stars to shame. 

When Bucky clears his throat and lets his gaze drop, Steve’s hands slip away from him and he takes a step back. He wants to kiss him again, but has a feeling that Bucky’s brought him here for a reason. 

“Does this lighting work?” 

Shoulders straightening, Steve looks around, not sure exactly what he means by that. The lighting here is just fine. Soft. A gentle golden glow that fills the room. Some of it reflects off a little golden box perched on the mahogany mantle. Without thinking much of it, Steve goes to look at it. Bucky stays where he is.

“What?”

“Well, don’t artists need good light?”

A little smile teases Steve’s lips. He still doesn’t know where Bucky is headed with this, but it obviously has something to do with him drawing and he couldn’t be more pleased that he’s called him an artist. 

“Zat iz true, sir,” Steve replies in a horribly executed French accent, fiddling a little with that gold plated box that doesn’t seem to have a top. “But I am not used to working in such ‘orreeble conditions–what is this thing?”

Next to him now, Bucky chuckles, light and airy. Seems he’s enjoying watching Steve being confounded by a box that can’t be opened. 

“That’s not how it works.”

“It’s a _box_ ,” Steve answers. “How else would it work?”

Still amused, Bucky taps the front of it and for the first time since his intrigue began, Steve realizes that’s not just another part of the ornate pattern that goes around the box. It’s a switch. 

“It’s already wound up,” Bucky tells him. “Just slide the switch.”

“Is it a music box?”

“No. Not exactly. Go on. You’ll see.” 

Even more curious now, Steve follows Bucky’s instructions and slides the switch to the side. As soon as he pulls his thumb away, the round lid in the center of the box flips up and a little bird pops up. It sings just like any bird, its beak opening and closing and its wing flapping as it turns this way and that before the lid snaps closed again, bringing the bird back into the box. 

Steve glances at Bucky. He’s never seen anything like that before and Bucky looks at the box now with warm fondness.

“It’s a singing bird box,” he explains, gaze drifting from the box to Steve again. “This one is one of E. Flajoulot’s. He’s quite a prestigious Parisian who fabricates them.” Bucky’s fingers touch the corner closest to him. He seems to want to straighten it though Steve sees nothing wrong with its placement. “My mother bought it for me when I was thirteen and we visited Paris for the first time. I didn’t even ask for it. She just saw me…looking at them through a window and at the hotel that evening she handed it to me.”

A wistful sort of smile tugs at the corners of Bucky’s mouth. Though his gaze is now downcast, Steve thinks his eyes may’ve become misty. Until he clears his throat and looks back. 

This time, seeing the longing and sad sense of nostalgia that crosses Bucky’s face, Steve doesn’t hold back. He gently slips his hand behind Bucky’s neck and draws him in to press a kiss to his forehead. 

Pressed against him, Bucky sneaks his arms around Steve’s waist and hugs. Warm and affectionate. Like he’s starved for such affection. Steve is very willing to sate any appetite he might have for such a thing. 

“I can whistle to birds, you know,” he tells him. “Cardinals. They sing back.”

Bucky smiles at him. “You’re serious?”

“I am. I can show you. If you’d like. One day.”

“I would. Very much.” He closes his eyes for a second and sighs softly. “Come here,” Bucky whispers. “I’d like to show you something.” 

They don’t actually go anywhere. All Bucky does is turn Steve’s attention to something on the other side of the room. When Steve spots what he’s trying to show him, his eyes go side. A breath catches in his throat. He almost can’t believe it. 

“Monet!” he exclaims, and darts over to where the paintings are stacked against the wall. He crouches down to get a better look. 

“So you do know his work,” Bucky murmurs as he follows. “I thought as much.”

“Of course, I know him. Look at his use of color here,” he says, finger gliding across the painting, just shy of touching. “Isn’t he great?”

“I know. It’s extraordinary.” Bucky shifts his weight. Uncomfortably. Steve looks up at him. “Alex didn’t think much of them. He called them finger paintings.”

Steve scoffs and rises to his feet. He touches Bucky’s cheek and takes his chin between his thumb and index finger. 

“That’s because that buffoon wouldn’t know a true work of art even when it’s right in front of his eyes. All he sees are shapes and colors. He doesn’t know how to see the real beauty.”

“Oh…” Bucky breathes and then lights up with a smile he tries very hard to hide but has trouble since his chin is currently in Steve’s soft grip. “I…” He giggles. Completely adorable. Then moves in to quickly peck a kiss to Steve’s lips.

He moves away then, going into the adjoining walk-in wardrobe closet. The closet alone is nicer than the bunk Steve and Sam are shacking up in. There, Bucky goes to a pretty big iron safe and starts working the combination. Another first for Steve. He knows how a combination safe works, he’s just never seen one being opened before. It’s a little fascinating. The combination twisting. The sounds of the lock unlocking. The thick door opening. 

Then, of course, the reward for all that hard work. The contents of the safe revealed. Steve can only whistle at what he sees. Stacks of money. Official looking documents. Banking bonds, maybe. And a velvet box.

Bucky’s eyes meet Steve’s in the mirror behind the safe. He shakes his head with irritation pinched between his eyes. 

“Alex takes this hideous thing with him everywhere,” he says. “It’s insufferable.” 

“Speaking of insufferable,” Steve replies as he makes his way back into the sitting room. He looks around the corner and sees Bucky’s bedroom. “Should we be expecting him anytime soon?”

“Not as long as the cigars and Brandy holds out.” 

Back in the room with him, Bucky has that box from the safe in his hands. He opens it. Inside is a necklace with a huge, blue gem. Steve simply cannot believe his eyes. That thing would fetch quite a pretty penny. Enough, anyway, to feed Brooklyn. 

Bucky removes the necklace from the case and holds it out to Steve. Hesitant and nervous, Steve takes it from him. The blue gem is shaped like a heart and fills almost his entire palm. Light radiates through it, sparkling whenever it moves even a little. There’re diamonds bordering all around it and make up the chain. 

“What is this?” Steve asks. “A sapphire?” 

“No, this is a sapphire.” He shows him the ring on his left finger. “This is a diamond. A very rare diamond.” 

“It’s very nice.”

“It’s called the Heart of the Ocean.” 

“Hm.”

It’s quiet for a few moments while Steve goes on just looking at the diamond. He can only stare at it. At this wealth beyond his comprehension. 

He’s mildly aware of Bucky shifting his weight a little beside him. Almost like he’s getting ready to do or say something. Steve, eyes still on the jewel, waits.

“Steve,” he murmurs. “I want you to draw me like one of your French models. Wearing this.” 

So that’s what he’s up to. The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts. He’ll be happy to do such a thing. 

“Okay.” 

Bucky steps up even closer. Close enough that his chin brushes against Steve’s shoulder. Steve can feel his warm breath against his neck. 

“Wearing _only_ this.” 

It takes a few seconds for Bucky’s request to fully settle in Steve’s mind. When it does, Steve wonders if he’s heard wrong. There’s just no way. Then again, this wouldn’t be the first time that Bucky’s surprised him and when Steve finally convinces himself to look at him. He’s met with a saucy smirk and a giggle. 

Steve is careful not to let his eyes roam down Bucky’s body. Not while he’s still dressed. He definitely doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression. He’s a professional. 

“O-okay,” he says, which is the only response his brain is able to come up with at the moment. 

Taking the diamond back from Steve, Bucky disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Once he’s in the sitting room alone, Steve lets out a heavy breath and scrubs a hand over his face. He permits himself one minute to panic while Bucky readies himself to be his nude model. 

This shouldn’t be so nerve-wrecking. Steve’s done this many times before. All he’s doing is sketching someone. Someone who’s name sings within his heart and makes his blood turn to gold–shining and shimmering in the sun he’s brought to Steve’s life. 

None of this will stop Steve from doing what Bucky’s asked of him, so he takes in another breath and starts to set the room up in a more proper fashion for this. There’s a little couch with pillows on it at the other end of the room. A perfect place for Bucky to lay so Steve drags it to the middle of the room. He fluffs up the pillows. Moves one to the other end of the thing. 

Once he’s finished setting that up, Steve rolls open his bag and starts laying out his supplies on the table. His sketchbook is open and ready, waiting to be used. He selects the Conte crayon that will work best to start with. It needs to be sharpened. He takes out the razor and shaves the end to a point.

As he does that, the door Bucky closed opens again and Steve simply looks up because he hears it. What he sees is so wildly unexpected that his mouth goes dry. He’s not sure why. Steve already knew what Bucky had gone to do so it shouldn’t surprise him that he’s now only wearing a silky robe. 

The robe is red with the bottom and cuffs trimmed in gold. It’s short, too, falling just above Bucky’s knees. Still in the doorway, Bucky leans against the frame and twirls the gold sash keeping the robe in place. He’s smirking. Almost seductive but with a bit too much humor to achieve that goal. 

“The last thing I need,” Bucky says as he comes back into the room, hips swaying from side to side, “is another portrait of me looking like a porcelain doll.” He flips something from his thumb, and Steve just manages to catch it. “As a paying customer…” Steve looks at what he’s caught. A dime. He grins at Bucky. “I expect to get what I want.” 

Bucky steps back now. He swallows roughly, but manages to keep that cool, confident expression on his face as he parts the ends of his robe. The blue diamond lays against his pale gold skin. While it looks uncomfortable to wear, it looks stunning, sparkling over Bucky’s chest. 

As Bucky lowers the robe, letting it fall to a pile at his feet, Steve is once again sure to not let his gaze lower. He probably looks like a damn fool right now just staring at Bucky like this, but his brain is misfiring at the moment. All he can process is how beautiful he is. 

Finally, though, he clears his throat and points to the little sofa thing that he dragged over and tries to tell Bucky to sit there.

“Over on the bed– uh, I mean, the, um…” Steve clears his throat. “The couch. Just lie down.”

“Divan,” Bucky says as he lowers himself onto the plush cushions. 

“Huh?”

Steve’s aware the Bucky’s just said something, it just doesn’t make much sense to him at the moment. He’s not sure anything will. Except Bucky’s snicker.

“It’s called a divan.” He lies back, trying to get into both a comfortable and artistic position. “Just…tell me when…”

“No, wait.” Steve stops him as he continues adjusting himself. “Put…put your arm back up where it was.” Up over his head, resting over the back of the couch. Or divan. “Now put your other arm down, your hand right…right above your bellybutton.” Bucky listens beautifully. “Right. Chin down a little and bend your right knee up a little. Perfect. All right, eyes on me.” Bucky settles into this position and looks right at him. “Okay, um…” Steve swallows his nerves away. “Try to stay still.”

Steve brings the pencil down to begin sketching only to have it fall from his hands. Still in position, Bucky stifles a snicker. 

“I believe you are blushing, Mr. Arteest,” he teases and Steve leans forward to retrieve the pencil. “I can’t imagine Monsieur Monet blushing.”

A nervous smile twitches on Steve’s mouth as he straightens up again. He sighs and flicks an amused glance Bucky’s way before bringing the tip of his pencil down to try once more.

“He does _landscapes_ ,” he says. “Try to relax your face.”

“Okay,” Bucky whispers. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Steve’s already figured out that Bucky apologizes just for being himself. If he can do something about that, he will. “No laughing, though.”

This, of course, makes Bucky try to hold another laugh back, and Steve did it on purpose just to see that smile. But once Bucky settles again, Steve finds himself easily drawn in and falling into the professional headspace he’s knows he has. 

He starts with Bucky’s hand. The one lifted over his head. Well-polished, clean hands that’ve counted money his entire life and ache for the chance to do something so much more. Bucky’s pose is languid, those hands of his beautiful, and his eyes radiate all energy and life trapped inside him, and what slowly emerges on paper is the best thing Steve has ever done. 

~~~

The heat was already turned on when they came into the room, a bright orange glow warming the room in the makeshift fireplace. Good thing he’d turned it on before he left because it now warms his skin while he poses in the nude for Steve.

Bucky knew what he’d be asking of Steve before he even brought them back to the room. He has a plan. It’s not a thorough plan and probably not even a very good one but he intends to follow through. That started with his new portrait. So different than any he’s ever posed for in the past. 

Steve’s expression when Bucky made his request was quite amusing. He expected that. The shock and surprise. Steve was simply adorable when he was flabbergasted. Even more so when he was nervous. 

Despite Steve’s obvious nervousness, he draws with confident strokes. Bucky watches him, mesmerized by those vivacious blue eyes seeking things that only he can see. Wisps of dark gold hair falling in front of his brow, even a little past his eyebrows and Steve does nothing to brush them away. As his eyes come up to look at him over the top edge of his sketchpad, Bucky’s pulse quickens. The image burns brightly. It is something he will carry with him for the rest of his life.

Something seems to happen in the room now that Steve’s fallen into his work. It breathes for him. Belongs to him. This Third Class passenger sitting in the most extravagant suite on the ship has simply taken control over it and everything in it. The warm air grows hotter. The night beats around them in sweet susurrations, a mere whisper while it waits in anticipation of something greater. 

Bucky’s heart has been pounding the whole time. Watching Steve draw is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. He needs to remember, quite a few times, not to let his thoughts run away from him. Arousal has already begun to pool between his legs. Not enough to be noticeable, at least he doesn’t think, and if it has, Steve makes no mention of it. 

He needs to catch his breath one or twice. Everything about Steve is just simply astonishing. Sunlight scatters around him. It glows from the ends of his hair and out of his eyes and fingertips. 

Head spinning and pulse thudding, Bucky tries to keep his breathing calm. A difficult task during the most erotic moment of his life. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes Steve. It might be as little as an hour. It might be several. Bucky does know that he’s changed by the experience. He drowns in Steve’s watchful eyes, resurfacing only when Steve lets out a steady breath and quietly announces that he’s finished. 

Bucky sits up slowly, hoping he doesn’t blush this time. He reaches down for the silk robe and slips it back around his body. The robe, he knows, was not meant to be worn until his wedding night. The thought of wearing this silky, revealing garment made Bucky’s stomach lurch. He hadn’t intended on wearing it tonight but when he was in his bedroom undressing and brushing his hair, he figured it might add a little flair. 

As Steve signs the drawing in the bottom corner, Bucky leans over his shoulder, watching. He’s amazed at what Steve’s done. The rendering is simply breathtaking. As though Steve’s somehow taken Bucky’s soul and preserved it forever. 

“Date it, Steve,” Bucky requests. “I always want to remember this night.” 

Smiling, Steve scribbles the date under his initials. April 14, 1912. A night that will live on in Bucky’s heart for all time. Steve lifts the whole folder and blows away any leftover residue before clapping it closed and handing it Bucky. 

Bucky goes to take it and, at the same time, helps himself to another kiss. While their lips are together, and he gets another taste of heaven, Bucky tries to take the folder out of Steve’s hand. Only Steve tightens his grip, not letting him get it. Lips still locked, Bucky giggles and tries again. And Steve still doesn’t allow him to take it. This time, Bucky laughs against their kiss and, finally, Steve releases the folder. 

Now that he has his drawing, Bucky brings it back into his bedroom where he first takes off this heavy necklace. He unclasps it and places it gently back into its plush bed within the box. Before Bucky dresses, he gets himself a fresh piece of Titanic stationary. Out of his music box, he gets a fountain pen. 

“What’re ya doin’?” Steve asks, propped against the doorframe.

First grinning, Bucky doesn’t answer that and instead hands him the box with the necklace. He takes it without hesitation. 

“Would you put that back in the safe for me?”

“Sure.”

When Steve steps away, Bucky brings the tip of the pen down to the paper to write a note in his practiced cursive handwriting. Just another thing that he needed to get just right. Hours and hours seated upright while his tutors hovered over him and had him curve letter after letter until they deemed it perfect. 

In a way it’s almost poetic. This note he’s leaving written in such elegant handwriting. Always a gentleman, even in this. Bucky smiles as he signs his name, reading over what he’s written.

_**Darling,** _

**_Now you can keep us both locked in your safe._ **

**_-James_ **

Once that’s done, he takes it and his drawing to the safe, smiling at Steve when he crosses through the room again. Bucky slips the drawing in first and then lays the note over it so that it’ll be noticeable. Just as he begins to close the door of the safe, he pauses, remembering something else that Alex keeps in there. Bucky knows it’s there. Alex has made vague remarks about it. 

Bucky opens the door all the way again and, without disturbing the items he’s placed in there, sifts through bonds and piles of money until he finds it. A hard lump forms in his throat when his trembling hand reaches for it. For the small, glass jar of petroleum jelly. 

He turns the jar over in his hands once or twice before making up his mind and hiding it in the pocket of his robe. Bucky shuts the safe, locks it, and goes back to his bedroom to dress. 

In front of the wardrobe, Bucky tries to decide what he should wear. Something light, he thinks. Colorful. Something Alex won’t like but Steve will surely appreciate. A smile touches his face when he reaches for his light blue shirt. His stripe cravat will go nicely with it as will the deep purple waistcoat. Black slacks and jacket to go with it. Too much color, he knows, will clash. 

Once he changes, Bucky takes that little glass jar he snuck out of the safe and smiles at it, mind made up. He slips it into his pocket. Bucky looks around the room, a giggle tickling his throat. The robe he wore is strewn over a chair. His other suit jacket is tossed on the bed. Fountain pen left on his vanity. All evidence of what he’s done tonight. 

Bucky doesn’t know how this is going to work for the rest of their journey. Right now, frankly, he doesn’t really care. He just wants to be with Steve. 

Leaving the suit jacket wear it is, Bucky goes back to the sitting room where Steve is just coming in from the promenade deck. He’s all huddled under his jacket, rubbing his hands together and blowing his warm breath between them. He smiles at Bucky. 

“It’s gettin’ cold out there,” he says, and then pauses to look at him. “Wow. You look nice.”

The compliment makes Bucky smile and has a tingle running up his spine. Just as he thought, Steve doesn’t ridicule his choice of wardrobe. Instead, he appreciates it. Likes it. Likes him for his tastes and mind and who he is on the inside, not what he looks like on his arm.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers.

Steve smiles back, holding his hand out. “C’mere. I wanna show you something.”

With all his trust and all his heart, Bucky places his hand within Steve. Those long, warm fingers close around it and Steve leads him back to the promenade deck. Right to the open windows where he positions Bucky in front of him and points to the ocean.

Titanic glides across an unnatural sea, black and calm. Bucky’s never seen the ocean so still before. The ship’s lights are mirrored almost perfectly in the dark water. Like liquid stars shining from below.

“Wow,” Bucky breathes. “That’s beautiful.”

“I know. I thought you’d like it.” Steve whispers a kiss to the back of Bucky’s neck. “Not a breath of wind. Look up now.”

Bucky does and grins at what he sees. The night sky is brilliant with stars even more wonderful than last night. A meteor traces a bright line across the heavens, but this time, Bucky doesn’t need to wish. He has it and laces his fingers with Steve’s. 

Just as they’re heading back into the sitting room, Bucky hears a key fitting into the door. Steve must hear it as well since his eyes go wide. Bucky grabs his hand to tow him toward the bedrooms.

“My drawings!” Steve gasps as they make their way through the rooms.

It’s too late for them though. If they make it away without being seen, they’ll circle around for them, but first, Bucky leads them out of his stateroom, gently closing the door behind him. Bucky leads him quickly along the corridor toward the B deck foyer. They’re nearly there when Bucky hears a door open behind them. Instinct has him looking over his shoulder to see who’s coming. He instantly realizes it’s a mistake since that person is Rumlow, who’s now hustling after them.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, grabbing onto Steve’s wrist to tug him. “Come on!”

An adventurous laugh bubbles through the both of them as they break into a run, surprising some ladies and gentlemen in the foyer. Bucky tows Steve past the staircase to the elevator banks. They slip and slide in their haste across the marble floor, nearly overcome by laughter, as they hurry to one of the lifts. 

“No, wait!” Steve cries out just before the operator could close the gates on them.

“Take us down!” Bucky insists. “Hurry, hurry!”

Shocked and surprised, the operator scrambles to comply, pulling the gate closed with the help of Steve. He starts the elevator down for them and as they descend, Rumlow, reaching the elevator just seconds too late, slams his hands on the metal gate. Bucky, filled with excitement and laughter, looks up at him and throws him the middle finger.

So not very gentleman like and out of character that the anger rippling across Rumlow’s face is enough to cause Bucky to nearly double over. The operator gapes at him. Next to him, Steve laughs just as hard, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist while Bucky takes to wiggling his fingers in a very sarcastic farewell.

“Bye!” he calls to Rumlow just before the man straightens up and dashes away again.

The lift brings them down to E deck and as soon as the operator opens the gates for them, Steve scrambles out, pulling Bucky along with him. Since they’re well aware that Rumlow might be right behind them, they run for the staircase and dash down the steps so quickly that Bucky nearly crashes into a food cart when he rounds the lower landing. Steve, just a step behind him, isn’t as lucky and actually _does_ slam into it, knocking over plates and cups.

Overcome by more giggles, Bucky leans against the wall to catch his breath while Steve pauses only for a moment to apologize to the steward pushing the cart and right a few teacups before they dash through a swinging door. 

Bucky can’t remember the last time he ever laughed so hard. Now that they have a moment of peace, they take some time to breathe. Leaned against the wall, Bucky’s smile is huge. Steve props his hand at the door frame, hand at his hip, and presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek before glancing out the circular window on the door. 

“Pretty tough for a valet, this fella,” he says. “He moves more like a cop.”

“I think he was,” Bucky replies. “I think he’s an ex-Pinkerton. Alex’s father hired him.”

The second Bucky says this, Rumlow appears out in the hall, glancing around for any sign of them.

“Oh, shit,” Steve chuckles. “This way!”

“Go, go, go!”

Rumlow’s spotted them already, of course, and runs toward them. Bucky follows Steve to the end of the corridor. They turn the corner and hit a dead end. There’s only one door in the small hallway so Steve quickly flings it open and they hurry inside, shoving the deadbolt in place. 

The room is so loud that Bucky presses his hands flat against his ear. There’s no other way out besides the door Steve’s just locked and a ladder that leads down. He can’t hear anything over the roaring noise of machinery. Steve is looking around and glances down to wherever that ladder leads.

“Now what?!” Bucky exclaims.

Steve shakes his head and clearly can’t understand what Bucky’s just said. The only reason Bucky knows that he asks for clarification is because he can read his lips when he asks _what_. They both laugh and Steve gestures to the ladder, going first and helping Bucky down with him. 

The escape ladder leads them to one of the huge boiler rooms beneath the rest of Titanic. Bucky looks around in amazement. It’s like a vision of Hell itself. The heat. The roaring furnaces. The black figures moving through the smoky glow. 

At first, no one notices them standing there. The big, sweaty workers are much too busy shoveling coal into burners and pushing carts of it around the room. 

“‘Old up!” someone shouts behind them in a thick, cockney accent. “Wha’re you two doin’ down ‘ere? It could be dangerous!”

Bucky’s already laughing again, grabbing Steve by the front of his shirt to pull him into a run again. The worker calls after them, but they ignore this and sprint across the length of the room, dodging amazed stokers and trimmers with their wheelbarrows of coal. 

“Carry on!” Steve says merrily over all the sounds around them. “Don’t mind us! You’re all doin’ a wonderful job!”

Together, they run through an open watertight door into the adjacent boiler room. Steve pulls Bucky through the hellishly hot space between two boilers and they wind up in a dark corner of the room. Watching from the shadows, Bucky can still see workers shoveling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces. The whole place thunders with the roar of fire.

When Bucky turns to face Steve again, he’s pleasantly surprised to have his face caught between those two, beautiful hands. Steve is still smiling as he kisses him. Kisses his cheeks and his nose and then his lips. Bucky can taste the sweat on his skin when he kisses back. 

“Come on,” Steve says, towing him through the open doorway next to them.

They cross a small corridor and go into another room, this time ending up in a cargo room. There’s a stark change in temperature here, and Bucky, dripping with sweat from being in the boiler room, hugs himself against the cold wall.

“Hey, look at this.” Steve is headed toward the touring car on the other end of the room. “This sure is something.”

It looks like a royal coach from a fairy tale, its brass trim and headlamps nicely set off by its deep burgundy color. Bucky, having followed right behind him, remains by the back door of the automobile. Smiling, he straightens and lifts his chin, clearing his throat to get Steve’s attention. When Steve sees him standing there, all proud and proper, he chuckles and opens the door for him. With Steve’s help, Bucky climbs into the plushy back seat and sits up like royalty while Steve jumps into the driver’s seat and honks the horn.

“Where to, sir?” he asks, throwing on an Irish accent when Bucky lowers the glass in the front window. 

Bucky leans out of that space and whispers in Steve’s ear, “To the stars…” 

Wrapping his arms around Steve’s body, Bucky gently pulls him into the backseat with him. He lands next to him, and his breath sounds so loud in the quiet darkness. He’s looking down at him, smiling.

“Hello, beautiful,” Steve whispers.

Bucky’s entire body sings with tension. Heat spills between them, the small distance that separates them. That small jar in his pocket practically screams to be taken out now. Bucky listens to it. He reaches into his pocket for it and slips it into Steve’s hand.

Gaze shifting from Bucky’s eyes to what he’s been given, Steve’s lips part just slightly. Those bright blue eyes of his are almost entirely swallowed in black. He breathes out a shaky breath.

“Are you nervous?”

Bucky finds himself surprisingly calm. As though this moment of truth has been upon him longer than he even realized, and now faced with it, he knows the answer.

“No,” he whispers. 

The most truthful thing he’s said in months and months, and it’s rewarded with Steve gently stroking the side of his face. The way he looks at Bucky now, it’s like Bucky is the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen. Steve leans forward and kisses him, and Bucky’s never felt so cherished in his life.

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs. “Have you…ever done this before?”

“I have,” Steve replies, not shying away from the truth and telling it. 

“With a…”

“Both,” Steve says, answering Bucky’s unspoken question. “I’ve been with both.” 

Bucky frowns a little at this. Silly, really. It doesn’t make this any less special if Steve has experience with anyone else. In fact, his experience might even make this better. It was only wishful thinking that they could be each other’s first and only. Another silly notion. Bucky has no idea what the future has in store for them. Hell, he doesn’t even know what the rest of this voyage will entail. All he knows is right here, right now, there isn’t any other place he’d rather be. 

“Is that okay?” Steve asks when Bucky doesn’t respond.

“Yes.” Bucky nods and kisses the tips of Steve’s fingers. He lays those artist's hands at the nape of his neck. “Put your hands on me, Steve.” 

Slowly untying his cravat, Bucky slips it away from his collar and then eases open the buttons of his shirt. Once finished with the buttons, Bucky breathes softly as Steve’s hands part it to the sides and he trails a finger down his chest and belly. As Steve kisses him, Bucky slides down on the seat, welcoming his weight atop his body.

“Bucky,” he whispers, feathering his lips across Bucky’s throat. Bucky tilts his head back to give him more access to that soft, sensitive spot. “You’re so beautiful.” 

His lips have just reached Bucky’s chin and though Bucky wishes to thank him beyond the blush that’s darkened his cheeks every time he’s called him beautiful, Steve catches his mouth before he can. This kiss deepens more than any of the others they’ve shared and Bucky moans into it. 

Fingers run through Bucky’s hair, stealing whatever coherency he may’ve had left. A sound comes out from somewhere deep inside of him, made of simple lust and instinct. He’s no control over it. There’s a part of Bucky that wishes to scream. Scream with the unexpected and brilliant forbidden pleasure that’s washed through him.

That part of him barely realizes that he’s pushed down both his trousers and undergarments and that Steve has unbuttoned his own shirt. Steve’s body is beautiful. Completely exquisite. The body of someone who’s known years of hard work, and Bucky’s fingers tingle when they trace along his chest. He lifts up just enough to pepper sweet kisses along Steve’s collarbone. This makes Steve shiver over him. Bucky smiles, knowing he’s pleased him.

“I want you, Steve,” Bucky whispers, and Steve’s eyes flutter closed with a soft moan as they sink down upon the welcoming seat. 

Everything feels to have slowed down. They don’t rush, instead savoring this moment with each other. Steve stares down at him. Taking him in. All of him. Bucky, here in the backseat of a touring car in the cargo hold of the grandest ship in the world, nearly naked and displayed for him and him alone. Rather than feeling any bit insecure or self-conscious, Bucky feels right. Safe. Adored.

There’s something wonderful about the trust and faith Bucky feels right now, here with Steve still mostly dressed while Bucky rests naked beneath him. Bucky soaks him in like the first flower of spring. Flat on his back, Bucky finds himself attempting to cling to this moment. To commit it to memory. This proves to be incredibly difficult. 

Each touch leaves him more languid and peaceful and euphoric. Steve holds him for an indeterminable amount of time, fingers mapping roads and paths along Bucky’s skin, flushed and filled with the heat that pulses off of it. Lips follow the trails Steve makes with his fingers and between every few kisses, Bucky can hear him whisper his name.

It’s this that makes it too hard to process anything other than pure, endless desire and Bucky finds himself floating to a world beyond any he ever dreamed possible. A place where time stands still and all that matters is the here and now. A place where Bucky’s lost in the decadent knowledge that Steve Rogers wants him. Maybe always has. 

Something inside of Bucky sizzles. Leaves him wanting. Even more so when Steve’s hand runs over the length of Bucky’s body, stopping just above tight, black curls beneath his waist.

Those gentle touches soon become not nearly enough and Bucky needs more. The fire under his skin burns almost painfully. 

Steve’s hand wraps around him and idly plays a bit. Not really stroking at all and yet the touch alone has Bucky moaning. His hands fumble along Steve’s arms as he attempts to pull him in close to kiss him again. Words, he’s found, have ceased working for him, but he doesn’t seem to need them. Steve covers Bucky’s mouth in another kiss. 

They kiss neatly at first; soft and gentle pecks that turn into something more feral and wanton the deeper they become, and begin to pull fevered thrusts of Bucky’s hips. 

Everything is heightened. All noise is louder. All touches are far more intense. All taste is stronger. So when Bucky feels the tip of Steve’s slicked finger circling that tight spot of his underside, Bucky cries out and shudders. Not in pain or in anguish, but rather a most unbelievable sensation that leaves him breathless and trembling.

Steve pauses. Asks, softly, “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” Bucky nods almost frantically. “Yes, yes, Steve. More. _Please_ , more.” 

Steve hesitates just long enough this time to move their bodies closer together. Brows touching, Steve whispers a kiss to Bucky’s lips and eases a small portion of that finger into Bucky’s body. He takes his time working it all the way. The world drapes over in luscious sparkles and glistening stars as Steve pushes that one finger in and out of him; too beautiful for him to focus on anything other than the sensations running through his body. 

All because of Steve.

“Steve,” Bucky pants. “Oh, Steve, that feels so…so good…”

“Mm.” The tip of Steve’s nose runs up the sensitive columns of Bucky’s throat, right up to his chin. “Tell me if I hurt you. Or if you don’t like anything.”

“Mhm.”

Another finger slides inside of him and Steve fades from his vision. Or Bucky closes his eyes; he isn’t sure which. All he knows is that Steve keeps doing that; pushes his fingers in and out, sometimes scraping the tips of his fingers along some sweet, treasured spot buried deep within him until Bucky is sobbing his name–or just sobbing–to the thick, warm air around them.

Their bodies drip with perspiration and while Bucky trembles with an onslaught of emotions and pleasure, Steve watches him with all the tenderness in the world. Makes sure he’s still okay. That everything still feels good. That he still feels safe. 

There are so many things that Bucky wants to say to him right now but his brain has turned words to mush. All he can do is pant out Steve’s name and make noises he didn’t even know were possible until now.

Bucky cries out when Steve’s hand pulls away, leaving him empty and longing to be filled again. Feeling Steve shift about, Bucky is able to put together enough awareness to figure out that Steve has pushed his own trousers down and is now hovered over him. Hand wrapped around his own sex, Steve strokes himself a few times and, watching, Bucky’s overcome with the desire to touch him.

He reaches forward, fingers skimming over Steve’s knuckles and guiding his hand away so that Bucky can gently take hold of him. Bucky’s never touched anyone other than himself in private before. Steve sighs when he moves his hand up and down. When he slides his thumb across the tip of it, Steve moans.

“Bucky…” he breathes. “That’s so…oh my god…”

His mouth drops open and these little sounds keep getting caught in the back of his throat. Bucky smiles, pleased with himself for being able to make Steve feel as good as he’s felt tonight, even if for only a few seconds. 

“Put yourself inside of me, Steve,” Bucky whispers. “I want you to have me.”

Steve nods and smiles. Says, “Yes, Bucky,” in a way that makes Bucky think he might do anything to make him feel good, and moves into position. 

Bucky’s hands open and close, his fingers flying around as they try to find something to hold onto. Steve tangles his own with them, Bucky squirming with need and want underneath him–the ache within him ubiquitous until Steve pushes forward.

Bucky releases a cry as beautiful as the evening stars in the world above them. A world still going on while down here a new world is created for Bucky and his Steve. Everything is so overwhelming and yet not enough at the same time. The burn. The stretch. The fullness. Every touch. Every thrust. Every moan that sends Bucky soaring through moonlit skies. 

Limbs swathed around every inch of Steve they can reach, Bucky loses any ounce of control he has. Maybe he never really had it to begin with. Not with Steve so easily able to take him like this. With such surrender from Bucky. His faith. His trust. His heart. 

Steve’s kisses are endless. Whether he’s kissing Bucky’s lips or cheeks or forehead, his lips never leave him. They even end up right next to Bucky’s ear. Where he whispers sweet things and asks just one question.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Bucky suckles lightly on Steve’s neck and sends a tremor through Steve’s body. “Perfect, Steve. I’m perfect.”

Everything is electric. Lightning pumps through his body anytime Bucky moves; anytime Steve moves inside of him. Their lips find each other over and over again and when they’re not pressed together, Steve goes on with his whispered endearments. Sometimes Bucky can’t understand what he’s saying–not much beyond the pleasure gushing through him is making much sense–but he says everything with such tenderness, such compassion, he makes Bucky feel as though he’s his most precious one. 

Steve makes a noise that falls somewhere between a moan and a growl. He buries his face between Bucky’s neck and shoulder. Bucky cups the back of his head, keeping him right there. Right where he wants him. So close together they might as well be one.

Just a few more thrusts has the universe unfolding in a splendor of glimmering lights and soundless thunder. Bucky throws his head back in a jubilant cry of ecstasy, his hand slamming against the foggy back window. That hand slips away, leaving a streaky print across the glass. Steve keeps hold of him. Hand right at the back of his neck to keep him safe. Secure. Anchored to the world that’s been rebuilt around him. 

He’s still shaking, the aftermath of pure bliss washing over him when Steve suddenly gasps and shudders, catching Bucky’s mouth as he empties out inside of him. His arms wrap around Bucky’s body as though he can’t bear the thought of putting any bit of space between them. He’s still panting, still sticky and wet with sweat as he lifts his head again and looks at Bucky in sheer awe and tremulous amazement. 

Steve’s overcoat hangs over them, still intertwined, like a blanket. Their faces are still flushed and their breathing is still evening out as they look at each other adoringly. Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s face almost as if he needs to make sure he’s real.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

Steve smiles softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

Bucky draws him closer to kiss his forehead then Steve rests against his chest. His fingers run down Bucky’s arm when Bucky puts it around him.

“I can hear your heart,” Steve says. 

Bucky wonders if he can hear what it’s saying. That it beats now for him. For what they’ve done tonight. For how much Steve’s helped it blossom in just these two days. Bucky isn’t the first teenager to be seduced in the backseat of a car and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. He’s okay with this. With such fine hands that hold him now. Artist’s hands that are so strong and roughened by work. Bucky hopes he’ll remember their touch for the rest of his life. 

They lay there, under Steve’s coat, while their bodies, skin-to-skin, begin to settle. When Steve first tries to lift away, Bucky’s heart leaps to his throat. He isn’t sure where the trepidation comes from. As though Steve might get up, thank him for a good time, and leave for good. Especially when Steve first kisses his brow and then uses a handkerchief that he’s produced from his jacket pocket to gently wipe Bucky’s release off his belly. Steve even starts to button Bucky’s shirt for him. 

“I don’t want you to get cold,” he whispers. “Are you cold?”

“Mm.” Bucky hums softly and shakes his head. “No. I’m perfect.”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, brushing a hand over Bucky’s hair. “You are.” 

Heart skipping a beat when he catches Steve’s meaning, Bucky giggles into his hands. Three little words that mean something huge and monumental, sit on his tongue. He even goes so far as to open his mouth to let them come out only a noise right outside the door stops him.

“Uh oh,” Steve mutters, moving quickly to get dressed again. “C’mon, c’mon!”

He jolts up, smacking his head on the roof of the car, and when he grabs it Bucky can’t help laughing. Steve doesn’t get angry or insulted. He just laughs right along with him, hurrying to help Bucky finish dressing, too. They tumble out the door together just as two stewards enter the storage hold. 

Steve tugs him between the rows of stacked cargo, hiding behind a pile of crates and boxes. The two stewards, both with electric flashlights, walk around and play the bright beams around the room until both land upon the touring car. One of them must notice the fogged up glass since he whistles for his companion’s attention and points at it. They step up closely…wait for just a moment…and whip the door open.

“Got ya!” one of them shouts and, as if stunned silent by what they find, they just stare blankly at the inside of the empty car.

Hand over his mouth to keep from laughing any harder, Steve shares an amused look with Bucky before pointing to another door at the other end of the room. They make a run for it, leaving the two confused and bewildered stewards behind. They’re just able to stifle themselves as they charge up the stairs and burst through a crew door onto the deck, falling all over themselves and barely able to stand from laughing so hard. Their breath clouds around them but if it’s that cold, Bucky doesn’t feel it. 

“Did you see they’re faces?” Steve laughs. “Did you…”

Bucky, never so sure about anything in his life, places two fingers over Steve’s lips so he can say something. One of the most important things he’s ever said.

“When the ship docks…” Bucky grins. “I want to get off with you.” 

Behind Bucky’s fingers, Steve smiles and nods. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. If that’s all right.”

“All right?” Steve tugs him closer, swathing Bucky in his arms. “More than all right.”

Pressing his face against Steve’s chest, Bucky breathes him in. He soaks in that warmth that Steve carries around with him. In those eyes. That smile. His voice. 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Bucky murmurs. “But I like it.”

“We’re falling in love.” 

The way Steve says this, so confident and excited, it just pulls at Bucky’s heart, touching it in places Bucky never dreamed possible. It unfurls and pulses into something even more beautiful than all the stars that twinkle in the sky above them.

“No wonder I trust it,” he whispers just as Steve tilts his head back and kisses him again. Fiercely. Rushed and yet lazy at the same time. Like he simply doesn’t want to waste one second of this time they’ve bought together but also excited by whatever life might bring them next. 

Bucky knows that eventually, he’ll need to sort everything out. All the details of how this is going to work. There are some possessions he doesn’t want to leave behind. Mostly things from his father. Even from his mother. The singing bird box, for instance. His music box. The pocket watch even though he’s broken the face of it. But Bucky’s learned something during his short time with Steve. Just because something is broken doesn’t mean it’s useless. Even with cracks and dents, anything can be made whole again. 

He doesn’t want any help from anyone. Not from his mother. Certainly not from Alex. He’s going to do this on his own. Or, at least, with Steve by his side. Bucky is going to have his own say over his life. He’ll be whatever and whoever he is deep down inside his soul and he’s going to live that person’s life. Not the one the world told him to live.

“You’re smiling,” Steve says, lips still against Bucky’s. “What’d you just think of?”

Bucky keeps kissing and, between pecks, says, “Freedom.”

“Mm.” Steve caresses the back of his neck. “I like that, too.”

Chuckling into their kiss, Bucky’s vaguely aware of a bell ringing somewhere from high above them. Someone might yell, too. An instruction to crew members, maybe. It doesn’t matter. Whatever’s going on outside of this pure, blissful moment with Steve is none of his business. 

The world beneath them even trembles in awe of their glory and happiness. Even if…

Wait. 

Bucky and Steve break their kiss and both look around. As wonderful as it would be for the world to break out into thunderous applause for them, that’s not what’s happening. It’s the ship. The ship is shuddering under their feet. 

Something suddenly appears in the black ocean. It’s almost too hard to believe, and Bucky looks up in astonishment as an iceberg sails past, blocking out the sky like a frozen mountain. Fragments break off it and crash down onto the deck, and they have to jump back to avoid flying chunks of ice.

“Watch out, watch out!” Steve shouts, throwing his arm out to shove Bucky behind him and shield him from the debris. 

Another passenger to the right of them tries to maintain his balance atop the shaking deck but loses it at the last second and falls. Steve rushes to his side and helps him back to his feet while shouting for a few others out there to back away so no one gets hurt.

He and Bucky rush to the starboard rail just in time to see the burg moving down the side of the ship. They lean over the rail to see what’s happened. All Bucky can make out are some scratches along the paint. Somewhere in the distance, alarm bells clatter mindlessly. Bucky glances over his shoulder to see First Officer Murdoch standing on the bridge, his hands gripping the railing. The shock on his face, all the color drained from his cheeks, is palpable. Bucky can feel it all the way down here, cutting right through the marrow of his bones.

“It looks okay,” Steve says, still leaned over the side. “I don’t see anything.”

“Could it have damaged the ship?” Bucky asks, eyes still on Murdoch, now talking with Captain Smith.

“It didn’t seem like much of a bump,” he answers, reassuringly. “I’m sure we’re okay.”

Behind them, a couple of steerage passengers are kicking the ice around the deck like a ball. On the deck above them, First Class passengers are watching with amused interest. One man even tosses a chunk of ice to another asking if he’s missed all the fun. The man he’s speaking with points and tells him that he thinks it hit over there.

Despite the excitement and merriment and Steve’s words, Bucky isn’t sure about this. The crew is hustling around, scrambling about to get things done, even this late at night. The Captain, hurrying down to the deck with two crewmen, looks horror struck. Mr. Stark has even joined them, and as Bucky and Steve come up the steps from the well deck, they rush right past them. Mr. Stark barely even glances at him.

“Boiler room six if flooded eight feet above the plate,” one crewman says. “And the mail hold is worse.”

The other says, “She’s all buckled in in the forward hold.”

“Can you shore up?” Captain Smith asks.

“Not unless the pumps get ahead.”

“Have you seen the damage in the mail hold?” Mr. Stark asks. 

“No, sir, she’s already under water.”

As they continue down the stairs, exchanging hurried thoughts and fevered worries, Steve looks back at Bucky and shakes his head.

“Okay,” he says, lowly. “This is bad.”

A thought, one he never wanted to have again, hits Bucky like a punch to the gut. He knows it’s the right thing to do even if he dreads it.

“We have to tell Mother and Alex.”

~~~

And it just became so much worse. 

If Bucky goes back to them, even for a noble reason such as this–and it’s the right thing to do, Steve knows it is–they might sink their claws back into his soul and yank him back to them. It hurts just considering the possibility. 

But Steve can understand completely why Bucky feels the need to do this. Maybe he doesn’t care for Alex–in fact, he’s pretty sure Bucky loathes the man’s entire existence and since he’s the man who made Bucky think he had no option other than to throw himself over the back of the Titanic, Steve’s feelings for him are mutual–but Winifred is still his mother. Whether or not they see eye-to-eye any more, she’s still the woman who raised him. Who, apparently, at one time, showed him the love and affection that Bucky still craves from her.

He still loves her, despite their differences. Something, quite possibly an emergency, is happening now and it isn’t any wonder Bucky would want to warn them. In fact, when they’re done with them, Steve hopes Bucky doesn’t mind going down to Third Class to find Sam. Also Natalia and Clint and their families. If something is really wrong, Steve would prefer them to all be together.

The ship has stopped treading through the water and the engines have been turned off. Steve hadn’t realized just how much noise everything kicked up until they were gone. The silence is eerie. The stillness of the night while the crew out here is rushing around almost aimlessly. 

Steve had tried to think positively when they first saw the iceberg. He could hear the concern in Bucky’s voice and wanted to erase it. Of course, everything was gonna be all right. They were sailing across the Atlantic on the Titanic. The world’s first unsinkable ship.

“You don’t…” Bucky clears his throat and shifts his weight when Steve doesn’t answer right away. “You don’t need to come. If you’d rather say behind, I’d…I’d understand.”

The sacrifice in Bucky’s voice is so thick that it wraps around Steve’s shoulders, weighing him down. Steve would never let Bucky face this on his own. That’s a promise he’s already made and full intends to keep. 

“I’m with you to the end of the line, remember?” Steve answers, cupping the back of Bucky’s head and bring him closer. He kisses his brow. “You jump, I jump, right? 

Against Steve’s chest, Bucky nods, and he hopes that Bucky truly believes that promise. Steve won’t ever break it.

“Right.”

Letting Bucky lace their fingers, Steve follows him through the First Class door to go back inside the ship. 

As they walk through well-lit and grand corridors, other First Class passengers, awakened by the shudder or the sudden stop of the engines, emerge from their cabins. Some are still fully dressed while others close their robes and attempt to flag down a steward or two to get some answers.

One woman in particular gets the attention of one and asks why the engines have stopped; that she felt a shudder.

“I wouldn’t worry, madam,” he answers. “We’ve likely thrown a propeller blade. That’s the sudder you felt.”

Which isn’t the truth, and if the way Bucky squeezes his hand is any indication, the fact that this man is either lying or honestly doesn’t know the truth, is rather dismaying. Mr. Stark even passes by them again, this time with what looks like a bunch of rolled up plans and blueprints tucked under his arm. Panicstricken, he looks as though he’s been injured himself. His ship has been hurt and it cuts right through him as well. Mr. Killian, in his pajamas and trying to tie the sash of his robe around his waist, follows behind him but rather than any worry on his face, he simply looks annoyed and grumbles something about getting on their way again.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs when Bucky looks over his shoulder after Mr. Stark. “It’ll be okay.”

Bucky offers a soft smile and nestles his head against Steve’s shoulder for a moment. Whether he believes that or not–to be honest, Steve doesn’t know if even _he_ believes it–it warms his heart knowing Bucky finds comfort just being with him. Near him. Steve feels it, too.

When they round the corner, crossing the B-Deck foyer, and enter the corridor, Steve isn’t surprised to see Rumlow out in the hall waiting for them as they approach the room. A welcoming party. How lovely.

“We've been looking for you,” he says to Bucky and adds something of a sarcastic, “ _sir_.”

Much to Steve’s delight, and hopefully to Rumlow’s dismay, Bucky completely disregards him and just keep walking. With Steve by his side. Steve hides a grin, even when Rumlow brushes up next to him to enter the room first.

“Well,” Bucky sighs, “here we go.”

That welcome party Steve figured was there is a lot more than he anticipated. Not only is Alex there, but so is Bucky’s mother and two stewards and a man that Steve recognizes from the night he first met Bucky. The Master at Arms. They’re all scattered about the room.

One man is taking photos of the room. Another looks like he’s searching for something. The Master at Arms is looking through Steve’s drawings. He even makes a comment about them. That he thinks they’re good. Alex, who’s been seated on the sofa smoking a cigarette, jumps to his feet to snatch them out of his hands and tells the man looking around not to touch anything. Winifred, wearing a silk, black robe, has just been handed a drink.

Now that they’re fully in the room with everyone, Bucky takes a tighter grip on Steve’s hand, especially when Alex does a double take when he notices them. He snuffs his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. Everyone looks at them standing together, hands laced and Bucky almost clinging to Steve. Winifred has cletched the ends of her robe around her throat as though Steve might try something inappropriate.

“Something serious has happened,” Bucky says, voice not holding the authority and confidence Steve knows he’s capable of.

Alex, who spared only a passing glance for Steve, eyes Bucky like a predator. An angry predator ready to strike. Next to Steve, Bucky stiffens. 

“Yes, it has.” His eyes flick to Rumlow for a moment. “Indeed. Two things dear to me have disappeared this evening. Now that _one_ is back…” Now he looks at Steve. “I have a pretty good idea where to find the other.” To the Master at Arms, he says, “Search him.”

The Master at Arms is already approaching with his hands out. At the same time, Rumlow, behind Steve, starts trying to take his coat off of him. 

“Take your coat off, son,” the Master at Arms instructs. “Come on.”

“Oh–” Steve holds in a swear. “ _Now_ what?”

Once it’s off, Rumlow hands the coat to the other steward who immediately starts rummaging through all the pockets. Despite the ridiculousness of all this, Steve endures the humiliation of being searched and patted down for absolutely no reason; all while keeping his eyes firmly on Alex. He’s got nothing to hide. 

“Alex, what are you doing?” Bucky asks, approaching him now. Seems that he’s gained some of that confidence back. It’s nice to think that he’s gotten it in order to defend Steve. “We’re in the middle of an emergency. What’s going on?”

“Is _this_ it, sir?”

Steve swings his gaze away from Alex and to the man who is currently pulling a diamond necklace from the pocket of his coat. Not just any diamond. He’s taken out the very same diamond that Bucky had worn earlier. The diamond that Steve put _back_ in the safe, not stuffed in his pocket.

“Yes, it is,” Alex says as the steward hands it back to him, the necklace passing right in front of Steve’s outraged face.

“This is _horseshit_!” Steve exclaims as the same irons from the other night are clapped over his wrists. The expression on Bucky’s face, though, that dismayed, horrified expression, breaks Steve. It might be only the smallest bit of doubt, but it’s there, and that hurts more than any blow Steve’s ever been dealt. “Don’t you believe it, Bucky! Don’t! I didn’t take it!”

“He…” Bucky shakes his head, anxious eyes searching for the truth. “He couldn’t have done it.”

“Of course, he could have,” Alex persists, haughty and smug. “It’s easy for a professional. He probably memorized the combination when you opened it.”

Steve can see the memory in Bucky’s eyes. Him at the safe, looking in the mirror and meeting Steve’s eyes as he stood behind him, watching. Bucky releases a jagged breath and shuts his eyes as though he’s somehow found himself in a nightmare. When he opens them again, he shakes his head and holds his palms out.

“No, this is absurd. I was with him the whole…the whole time.”

Only he wasn’t and they both know that. Bucky handed the case with the diamond in it to put back in the safe. Steve had ample time to pocket the thing. He didn’t, of course, he would neve; Steve isn’t a thief and even if he _had_ to take something from someone without their permission, he’d return it. 

But Bucky is still looking at him with those pleading eyes. Almost suspicious because he’s been taught to distrust anyone not like him and his people, and no matter how much Steve’s tried to gain his trust, this little tug at it is enough to pull the whole thing apart. 

Alex says something low enough to Bucky that Steve can’t hear but whatever it is, it makes Bucky’s face turn a dark shade of scarlet and lower his gaze in shame. 

“Oh, real slick, Alex,” Steve says through clenched teeth. To Bucky, “They put it in my pocket, Bucky.”

“Shut up!” Alex snaps. Steve can’t tell if it’s because he’s right or because he’s once again called Bucky by Bucky instead of James. Both seem viable when it comes to him.

“This isn’t even your pocket, is it?” Rumlow asks, with an unmistakable satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He points to the label on the neck of the coat. “Property of A. L. Ryerson.”

He shows the Master at Arms the label who takes it and says that the coat had been reported stolen earlier today, and Steve’s heart falls. He’d forgotten all about that and he had meant to give it back earlier but so much has happened between then and now. Steve’s eyes fall closed and he breathes out a desperate sigh.

“Okay, wait,” he tries to explain, mostly to Bucky who now looks between him and the coat, hurt and confused. “I just borrowed that, I was gonna return it.”

“Oh, an honest thief,” Alex laughs sarcastically. “We have an honest thief here.”

Steve forgoes any attempt at convincing anyone other than Bucky. They’ve made up their minds. He’s guilty. But Bucky…maybe he still has a chance to make him see he _didn’t_ do this. 

“Bucky, please, look at me.” Bucky tries, Steve can see that, but his eyes keep falling and he shrinks away from him when Steve leans closer. “Bucky, I _didn’t_ do this. Please, you _have_ to believe me. Don’t listen to them, Bucky. You _know_ me. You know I didn’t do this!”

The Master at Arms and Rumlow are now forcing him out of the room. Tugging on his shoulders and arms despite Steve’s resistance. The Master at Arms tries to convince him to come along quietly, but Steve won’t have it.

“Bucky!” Steve continues to shout, even as he’s pulled into the hall. “Bucky, you know I didn’t do it!” He breaks away just enough to get another look at Bucky’s despondent face. “You know I didn’t do it! You know me!”

No matter how hard Steve tries, he can’t get away from the two men towing him farther and farther from Bucky. Once they end up on the elevator, Steve stops trying altogether. That look in Bucky’s eyes–so hurt and betrayed–is seared in Steve’s mind. 

At first, Steve doesn’t pay much attention to what direction they’re going. All he knows is that they’re taking him back to E-Deck. Along the way, they pass an office where he recognizes Mr. Stark and the captain. He catches a bit of their conversation as they go by.

“An hour, two at most,” Mr. Stark is saying.

The captain asks the officer in the room, “How many souls on board, Mr. Murdoch?”

“Two thousand, two hundred souls on board, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Aldrich…” 

Steve doesn’t hear the rest of the captain’s response and stops paying much attention to what’s going on around him so he doesn’t realize that they’ve reached the Master at Arm’s office until they get inside. He’s towed inside and brought over to a water pipe where the handcuffs are removed just so he can be shackled in place. Steve hangs his head. He has no idea what’s in store for him now. Knowing that jackass, Alex will probably press every single charge he can manage. Steve’ll end up tossed in jail. 

Worse than that, he’ll be in jail for something he didn’t do when Bucky believes that he did do it. The thought of Bucky needing to follow through with this marriage now is even more haunting than it had been. He already hates Alex. Now he’s given the man reason to make his life even more miserable. 

Somewhere in the distance, echoing through the halls of E-Deck, Steve can hear a commotion. Doors swinging open and slamming closed. People shouting. Stewards barking orders.

“Everybody up!” someone yells. “Let’s go! Put your lifebelts on!”

There’s banging, like maybe someone is pounding their fist door to door and possibly along the wall to shock the steerage passengers awake.

“Lifebelts on. Lifebelts on. Everybody up, come on. Lifebelts on…!”

Even from here, Steve can hear the confusion as they tear these unsuspecting Third Class passengers from deep slumbers. So many of them don’t even speak English. Stece can’t imagine what they must be thinking, and no one gives a good goddamn about them. And instead of being out there to help, Steve is in here. Locked to a fucking pipe. 

“Sir!” a crewman rushes into the room, out of breath and trembling. “You’re wanted by the Purser, sir. Urgently!”

The Master at Arms looks between Steve and Rumlow and then at the man who’s come to fetch him. 

“Go on,” Rumlow says. “I'll keep an eye on him.” 

Rumlow pulls a pearl handled Colt .45 automatic from under his coat. The Master at Arms nods and tosses the handcuff key to him, then exits with the crewman. Rumlow smirks and flips the key in the air. Catches it as he leans back in his chair.

“I know you put it in my pocket,” Steve grumbles. “You must _really_ get off on takin’ orders from rich snobs.”

Any attempt at riling him up in an effort to maybe trick him into taking the handcuffs off even for a second are for naught. Rumlow just scoffs a chuckle like Steve’s opinion means nothing to him.

“I’ll admit,” he says, “that seeing the look on your face was worth a month’s salary.”

Steve doesn’t respond to that. There’s nothing to say, anyway. He can’t get back to Bucky. He can’t get to Sam. To Clint and his family. To Natalia. The longer he’s stuck here, the quicker his heart starts to beat with the horrifying knowledge that something is very, very wrong and he can’t exactly count his present company as compassionate. 

Outside the porthole, there’s water slowly rising up the glass. Steve watches it apprehensively as the window slowly gets swallowed by the dark ocean. He stands there, subtly trying to pull his hands loose of the cuffs until he hears a strange sound behind him. Steve glances over to where Rumlow is seated at the Master at Arms’ desk. He’s taken out a single bullet and keeps putting it in the middle of the desk. When he lets go, it rolls right back to him, falling into his palm. He does this again and again until he smirks and loads it back in the gun.

“You know…” Rumlow says. “I believe this ship may sink.” He crosses the room to where Steve is. For just one, stupid second, Steve thinks he might actually uncuff him and allow him the sporting chance at survival. “I’ve been asked to give you this small token of our appreciation.” His fist sails right into Steve’s gut. Hard enough that it knocks the wind right out of him. “Compliments of Mr. Alexander Pierce.”

On his knees from that tremendous punch, Steve gasps for air while Rumlow plucks the handcuff key off the desk, tosses it once in the air, and then shoves it in his pocket when he catches it. He heads right for the door.

“You’re just…” Steve coughs. “You’re just gonna leave me here?”

“Nothing personal, kid,” he says and shuts the door behind him, leaving Steve gasping and cuffed to the pipe. 

For a few moments, Steve tries to gather his bearings. The effects of the hit he took from Rumlow are starting to wear down and when he can breathe right again, he pushes back up to his feet. Heart slamming against his ribs, Steve looks around for something that will get him out of this.

“Mama,” he whispers. “Mama, I could really use your help here. I don’t wanna die. Not like this. Please, not like this.”

Just moments after Rumlow leaves him there, the porthole is completely engulfed in water. Knowing that his mother would tell him he wasn’t allowed to give up, Steve tries tugging on the pipe with all his strength. No matter how hard he pulls, the damn thing won’t budge. 

“This could be bad,” he whispers to himself. 

When he hears a gurgling sound, Steve’s stomach plummets. He looks at the door and, from under it, water pours in the room, spreading rapidly across the floor.

“Shit!” he exclaims. “Oh, shit! Shit!”

He climbs up farther on the pipe and tries pulling that way. When that doesn’t work, he tries to tug one hand out of the cuffs, working until the skin around his wrist is raw and his face is red and there are tears in his eyes. Steve needs to let go and pants with exertion, trembling from head to toe as the water keeps on coming. 

“Help!” Steve screams. “Somebody! Can anybody hear me?!”

As the water rises more and more, the desk that had been across the room floats toward him and Steve climbs on top of that. The water is already ankle deep and freezing.

Steve screams and yells and shouts some more but the corridor outside is deserted and though his voice might be heard faintly through the door, there is no one there to hear it. He continues pulling on the pipe again, straining until his ears feel clogged and his entire face is red. Not willing to give up, Steve tries and tries and tries until his body is literally ready to fall out from beneath him. 

He collapses against the wall, unable to calm his breathing. The skin around his wrists hurts and even staring to bleed and he’s used all of his strength hopelessly pulling on this stupid, fucking pipe. There’s nothing left for him to do. Nothing. 

Tears burn his eyes but Steve forces them back. There’s already enough salt water in this godforsaken room; he doesn’t need to add any more. With the back of his hand, Steve rubs those tears away and then blesses himself as best as possible. Softly, to himself, he begins to pray. 

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…” 

Once finished with the Lord’s Prayer, Steve squeezes his eyes and rests his brow against the wretched pole that keeps him trapped here. If this is the end, he really has only one regret, and that, he thinks, isn’t a bad way to die.

“Steve!”

Steve wonders if it’s happened without him even realizing it when he hears a soft voice calling for him. 

“Steve!”

If Bucky’s here calling for him, then surely he’s made it to Heaven. But…no. No, if he’s in Heaven and Bucky’s calling out to him then that would mean Bucky has died as well and Steve isn’t okay with that. 

“Steve!”

When he hears him again, Steve is hit with the sudden realization that he hasn’t died. He isn’t dreaming. This isn’t wishful thinking. Bucky is here. Bucky is looking for him. Bucky’s come for him.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts back. “I’m here! I’m in here!”

“Steve!”

“In here! I’m here!” 

Steve starts rapping the cuffs against the pole to make more noise for him to follow. Bucky is still calling his name when the door pushes open, and then he’s there, sloshing through the water and trying desperately to get to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I hope you're doing well in these tough times. <3
> 
> For anyone who doesn't realize it, today is actually the anniversary of the night/morning the Titanic actually sank. While that will be happening in the next chapter, I thought why not update today. 
> 
> So for some visuals:
> 
> Here's Bucky's last suit
> 
> the...*ahem* lube
> 
> And this is actually a copy of a message that Captain Smith was given before Titanic set sail, warning him of an obstruction ((not icebergs)) that he needed to avoid


	7. April 15th, 1912

**April 15th, 1912**

Something touches Bucky’s shoulders as Steve’s shouts of innocence gradually fade to nothing. His mother’s hands are on him. Gentle. Almost like she’s attempting to comfort him. Not that it makes any difference. He’s completely devastated and the tears well up anyway. 

“Oh, James,” Winifred says, somewhat soothing, but still holding that new condescending tone of hers. “I told you not to trust that boy.”

Leave it to her to make Bucky feel as though this is his fault. That he’s to blame for Steve betraying his trust. She pets a hand over his cheek. Years ago, she’d’ve kissed his cheek to make him feel better. To reaffirm her love for him and that she’d do anything to keep him safe. 

“You’ll be okay now,” she adds. 

Sure, now that everything’s been pulled out from under him. Now that she gets what she wants. Now that Bucky’s back on her side of the line. Away from the thieving riffraff that turned his head only to get what he wanted. This very idea leaves Bucky cold and sick to his stomach. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to think. He knows what he _wants_ to believe. That Steve didn’t do this. That he couldn’t have. Not just because he’s too good of a person to steal but that he didn’t have the means or time to do it either. 

This isn’t the truth, though, and Bucky can remember with vivid clarity handing the box with the necklace in it to Steve, asking him to put it back in the safe for him. It would have been so simple for him to simply lift the lid and pocket the diamond, and Bucky would be none the wiser. Bucky didn’t want to believe it and still isn’t sure what to think of it all, but then, Steve also stole the jacket and there was no denying that. Yes, he claimed he intended on returning it but he hadn’t and Bucky’s just so confused and hurt. 

If Steve really did take it, if he’d been using Bucky this whole time just to rob them, he’d waited until Bucky was most vulnerable. He’d taken his clothes off for him. Allowed him into a most intimate moment. Worse than that. Bucky had invited Steve into his heart. His mind and body and soul. He’d handed all of himself to Steve. 

Alex’s cruel comment, the one that, no doubt no one else heard, still stings. Burns. He’d said it so low and cold. The contempt in his voice makes Bucky’s skin crawl even now. Shame rises hot and heavy through his body. 

_Maybe he did it while you’re putting your clothes back_ on _, dear._

This wasn’t just said out of anger at Bucky for what he’d done. These words were aimed specifically to hurt him. To taunt him for ever trusting a worthless man like Steve Rogers. 

Out in the corridor, Bucky hears knocking and voices. These last few minutes have consumed Bucky so much that he’s nearly forgotten about the iceberg. About seeing the panicked look on Mr. Stark’s face more than once. About the situation outside of this room.

Winifred and Alex must hear as well since their eyes find the door. No one has come to bother them just yet.

“Winifred,” Alex says, setting his glass tumbler down. “Please, leave us. I’d like to have a word with my _darling_ fiancé.”

At first, Winifred looks between them, and Bucky wonders if she considers not leaving as requested of her. Not with the inflection in Alex’s tone. She is a proper lady, though, and does as Alex’s asked.

“I’ll go dress, then,” she says, and then exits the sitting room to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. 

As soon as she’s gone, and Bucky is alone with Alex, the room shrinks to half its normal size, and Alex takes up most of the space Bucky’s left with. He’s not even looking at Bucky. Alex just stands by the entryway to the promenade deck, hand propped against the frame. The silence crackles around Bucky. He just wants to get this over with. 

When Alex turns a heated glare on him, though, Bucky has to look away. Not so much in fear of retaliation. He just has no desire to look at him, but Alex crosses the room and stops just in front of him. Against his will, Bucky forces his gaze up to meet his. 

Alex opens his mouth once, but he says nothing. All that normal composure he uses to mask his true self abruptly vanishes and he slaps Bucky so hard that Bucky staggers to the side. The slap is inconsequential compared to the blow his heart has taken, and Bucky simply allows the fire to spread across his cheek.

“It is a little slut, isn’t it?” he says, grabbing Bucky roughly by the shoulders and shaking him. “Look at me, you little–”

Something cuts him off and Alex’s eyes drop to Bucky’s waist. He pulls his hands back and reaches into the pocket of Bucky’s jacket. From out of it, he retrieves the jar of petroleum jelly. Jaw and eyes tight, Bucky again looks away with a sigh.

“Oh.” Alex barks a humorless laugh. “You filthy whore. You’ll spread your legs for anyone, won’t you?” He grabs Bucky by the arm, tight and unrelenting, and starts to drag him toward the bedroom. “We’ll just see how far those long legs of yours can spread.” 

Bucky, attempting to break free of Alex’s grip, plants his heels and tugs back. 

“No!” he shouts. “No, Alex, let _go_ of me!” 

Not only does Alex not release him, he tightens his grip and jerks Bucky closer to him, grabbing the end of his jacket to yank on that as well. 

“If you want to be a little slut–”

He’s interrupted by a low knock on the door and an urgent voice that doesn’t wait to be invited into the room. The door opens and their steward walks over to them. Alex, of course, has already let go of Bucky lest he be caught in such a dishonorable state. 

“Sir, I've been told to ask you to please put on your lifebelt, and come up to the boat deck.”

“Get _out_ ,” Alex growls. “We’re busy.”

“I'm sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Pierce, but it's Captain's orders,” he persists, heading into the bedroom that Alex had tried to drag Bucky to and fetching the lifejackets from the top of the dresser. “Please dress warmly, it's quite cold tonight.”

With the man’s eyes now focused elsewhere, Alex turns back to Bucky, a cruel, vindictive sneer on his face as he scoffs, and Bucky can easily catch his meaning. He’s lucky. Lucky that someone’s interrupted.

“I suggest topcoats and hats,” the steward continues saying, coming back with the lifejackets. 

“This is ridiculous,” Alex mumbles, walking away from Bucky as though he’d rather bite his own tongue off than do so.

The second he’s away from him, Bucky rubs at his cheek with the back of his hand and wraps an arm around his waist. When the steward takes a look at him, he must interpret the tears and crestfallen expression as fear. 

“Not to worry, sir,” the steward says as he places the lifejackets on the sofa. “I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”

The kindness in his voice is the only reason Bucky fakes a soft grin and nods. Darcy enters the room now, possibly on the orders of the crew to help them dress. She fetches their jackets and lays Bucky’s light gray frock coat over the back of the divan. Alex, already in his own coat, is still grumbling to himself as he fits his homburg hat onto his head. On the other side of the room, Darcy helps Winifred – who Bucky hadn’t even realized came back – with her touring hat. 

When Darcy comes back over, she looks between Bucky and the coat that he’s yet to pick up off the divan. She picks it back up and holds it open for her. 

“Here you are, sir,” she says. “Let me help you.” 

Bucky turns around and accepts the help, and now that they’re all dressed, they shuffle into the corridor toward the Grand Staircase. The stewards there, still helping other passengers with coats and hats and lifejackets, are just as polite and obsequious as every day. This really must only be a precaution. There is no real danger.

Steve must have been wrong. 

Or he’d been lying. 

Bucky’s throat hurts. 

Most of the First Class passengers have gathered in the foyer by the staircase. Stewards walk around with their silver serving trays offering liquor and coffee and tea. The jumpy piano rhythm of whatever song the band is currently playing comes out of the First Class Lounge a few yards away. No one really seems to know what’s going on though and many of them are growing indignant with the confusion. 

Even Peggy Carter, holding Sharon by the hand, stops a steward to ask what’s going on and why they’re all just standing around. 

“What’s doin’, sonny?” she asks. “You got us all trussed up and now we’re just cooling our heels.”

“S-sorry, mum,” he replies, stumbling on the first steps of the staircase. “Let me go find out.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what the hell’s going on here,” Peggy says to Wanda Maximoff who nods in agreement as they walk off to join Pietro and Wanda’s husband.

Bucky, walking next to but slightly behind Alex, might as well be sleepwalking. He’s aware that things are going on around him, but he hardly cares. Alex is, of course, complaining. About what this time, Bucky isn’t sure. Something about the English. Mother scolds him for using such language, but for the life of him, Bucky didn’t even hear any foul language. 

All he knows for certain is that Alex is so anxious to get back to their rooms for one reason. To finish what he started earlier. He may have calmed down since his initial attempt to drag Bucky into the bedroom, but Bucky knows there’s going to be retaliation for what’s gone on tonight. 

“Go back to our rooms and turn the heat on,” Winifred says to Darcy, who’s been walking behind them with their lifejackets. “I don’t want it to be cold and I’d like a cup of tea when we get back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Darcy replies, handing Winifred the lifejacket she’s been carrying for her.

Winifred, who’s only just finished putting on her white gloves, takes it from her and holds it like it’s garbage that she needs to get rid of. 

This is it then. This is going to be the rest of Bucky’s life. Somehow, and he can’t be sure how, his heart has gone on beating even though it’s shattered to pieces. It’s useless to him now but it keeps him alive anyway. 

Just as Darcy makes her way back out of the foyer, Bucky notices Mr. Stark walking through it. His eyes take in the magnificence of his ship but there’s fear and heartbreak in them. He looks something like Bucky imagines a ghost might look like. Pale and lifeless. Perhaps a reflection of himself. 

As Mr. Stark starts up the staircase, slowly and in a haze, Bucky thinks again that something must be very wrong. Just like Steve said. Bucky moves for the staircase.

“ _James_ ,” Alex growls, following after him. “Where do you think–”

But Bucky ignores him and touches Mr. Stark under his elbow. The contact must startle him. He gasps and turns around, his face falling when he sees it’s Bucky that’s there.

“Mr. Stark,” Bucky murmurs. “I saw the iceberg. And I can see it in your eyes. Please, tell me the truth.”

Bucky needs that. So horribly. He needs someone to be honest with him. To just, for once, tell him the truth. 

Swallowing roughly, Mr. Stark takes a glance at the people around them and then gently guides Bucky back down the stairs and to the side to speak to him. Again, Alex follows. 

“The ship will sink.”

The words send a terrifying blade right through Bucky’s gut. The look in Mr. Stark’s eyes–scared and sad and shameful–twist it.

“You’re certain?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t know why. If anyone will be honest with him, he knows it’ll be Howard Stark.

“Yes.” His gaze lowers to his feet. “In an hour or so…all this will be at the bottom of the ocean.”

A breath catches in Bucky’s throat. He lifts his hand to it. Tries to breathe right. Stomach folding, his heart now begins to pound. 

“Wh-what?” Alex asks. Bucky can hear the shock in his voice. The surprise. The unsinkable ship is going to sink.

“Please, tell only who you must,” Mr. Stark requests. “I don't want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly. Don't wait. They’ll…they’ll let you on, I assure you. You…remember what I told you about the boats?”

There aren’t enough. Not by half. A choice that hadn’t been made by Mr. Stark but one he clearly now blames himself for. This is his creation. A responsibility he bears on his shoulders.

“Yes,” Bucky whispers. “I understand. Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark goes off then, moving among the passengers and urging them to put on their lifebelts and get to the boats. The fear he’s left behind is so palpable Bucky feels it wafting through the air. 

“Come on,” Alex says, taking Bucky by the arm, lightly this time but still possessive. “Winifred!” he calls, and even Bucky can hear the tremble in his voice. “Let’s go. Now.”

He walks them past other strolling passengers and out onto the deck, near where Officer Lightoller is standing amidst a crowd of uncertain passengers. Some of the lifeboats have been swung out. It’s unbearably loud out here and Bucky has the urge to cover his ears. To block out the noises from the ship. The mindless chatter. The complaints. His mind is just a whirlwind of fear. 

So many people are going to die.

Bucky glances around at the other passengers out there in all states of dress and undress. One woman is actually barefoot. Others are in stockings. The maitre’d of the restaurant is in top hat and overcoat. Others are still in evening dress, while some are in bathrobes and kimonos. Women are wearing lifebelts over velvet gowns, then topping it with sable stoles. Some brought jewels. Others books. Even small dogs.

Captain Smith is walking stiffly toward them and when Officer Lightoller sees him, he quickly goes over to him. He yells something into the Captain’s ear through cupped hands, over the roar of the steam billowing out of the metal stacks. The fire in Captain Smith has gone out and he nods, a bit abstractly, at whatever Officer Lightoller has just said to him. 

“Right!” Officer Lightoller shouts to the crew. “Start the loading! Women and children!” 

The appalling din of escaping steam abruptly cuts off, leaving a sudden, unearthly silence until the band reassembles just outside the First Class Entrance Bucky’s just come through. They strike up a waltz, lively and elegant. The music wafts all over the ship. 

“Ladies, please,” Officer Lightoller says over the music. “Step into the boat.”

First, no one moves. Some of the women look to their husbands, even their fathers or brothers, for guidance. Finally, one woman, shaking her head like she’s annoyed, steps across the gap and into the boat. She gasps as she crosses, her gaze dropping to the water far below. 

“You watch,” someone says from within the crowd. “They’ll put us off in these silly little boats to freeze, and we’ll all be back on board by breakfast.”

Bucky both wants to shake whoever’s said it and wishes he was right at the same time. No one else–that he’s aware of–knows the horror that awaits them.

“Oh! My brooch! I left my brooch!” Winifred exclaims. “I _must_ have it!”

She turns back to go to her room but Alex takes her by the arm, refusing to let her go. The firmness of his hold must surprise her.

“Stay _here_ , Winifred.”

Bucky flicks his eyes up just in time to catch her gaze. This is the first time she’s ever heard him speak so firmly. Though Alex has released her, she doesn’t move, and Bucky simply lifts his eyebrows at her.

Within minutes, the first lifeboat is ready for launch. Bucky watches as Officer Lightoller gives the order.

“Lower away!” he instructs. “By the left and right together, steady lads!”

The boat lurches as the falls start to pay out through the pulley blocks. The women gasp at the first bit of movement and the terror begins flash across their faces as the boat descends, swaying and jerking, toward the water sixty feet below. Other passengers, watching the terrified faces of these women slowly disappear, clearly start to understand the gravity of the situation.

There’s something strange about the lifeboat, though. Something that doesn’t sit right with Bucky and it takes him only a moment to place his finger on what’s bothering him. The lowering boat has only been filled with twenty-eight people. Far be it from him to tell these men how to do their jobs, but the boats look capable of holding more than that.

From up on the bridge well, officers set off a distress rocket. It shoots to the sky with a hiss, exploding with a thunderclap over the ship and sending out white starbursts which light up the entire deck as they fall. For just a single moment, the dark, freezing water shines before dimming again. 

“Women and children only!” Officer Lightoller is saying as he begins boarding boat six. “No gentlemen at the moment, please.”

Another rocket bursts overhead, lighting the crowd. Startled faces turn upward. Fear now in the eyes.

Bucky watches the farewells taking place right in front of him as they step closer to the boat. Husbands saying goodbye to wives and children. Lovers and friends parted. The tears. The fear. The overwhelming sense of dread that no one wants to admit to having. 

Bucky is afraid. Truly, he is. And yet there’s something else inside of him. Some powerful emotion that he can’t put a name to. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Something that pulls heavy on his heart and makes tears well in his eyes as he sees the love and heartbreak all around him. 

Right next to the lifeboat being loaded, Peggy–who’s already secured a spot for Sharon–is helping a reluctant lady onto the boat. In fact, she’s been walking up and down the side of the ship helping this entire time. While Bucky just stands there, waiting for his turn with his mother and Alex. 

“Come on, you heard the man,” she says. “Into the boat, sister.”

“Any room for a gentleman, gentlemen?” Alex asks the men loading people into the boat.

Officer Lightoller shakes his head. Says, “Only women and children at this time, sir,” and then looks at Bucky and adds, “Oh, and…”

The judgment is still there. Even in a time like this. Bucky is not a real man. Not in their eyes. 

After Peggy assists that woman, she turns back around to look for anyone else who might need help. Next is Wanda, who’s giving tearful goodbyes to her family. They hold her close and promise her that they’ll be along shortly. The look on Wanda’s face as she’s peeled away from them makes Bucky wonder if she believes them or not. He wonders, as well, what it must feel like to be loved so fiercely.

Peggy then helps her into the boat and as she does, Winifred takes a glance around and seems a bit dismayed by something. 

“Are the lifeboats being seated according to class?” she asks, lightly yet completely serious. Even now, facing certain death, she’s more worried about class and social status than the lives of those she deems beneath her. She says, to Alex and even Bucky with a trill of a laugh, “I hope they’re not too crowded.”

Next to her, Alex huffs something of chuckle in agreement and the look on Winifred’s face makes Bucky think she believes he also agrees. All he can do for a moment is stare at her in utter disbelief that this is the woman who raised him. Who held his hand in the park. Who doted upon him just because. Bucky loves his mother dearly. But he cannot stand what she’s become. This vile, wretched woman who cares only for appearance and money. 

“Oh, Mother.” Bucky’s voice grows hard, his eyes cold. He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes, wishing so badly he could turn her back into the person she used to be. “ _Shut_ _up_!” Winifred freezes, mouth open. Shocked. “Don’t you understand? The water is freezing and there aren’t enough boats. Not by _half._ _Half_ the people on this ship are going to _die_. _Half_.”

The truth of this might dawn on Winifred because of Bucky’s forcefulness. She pales, and simply stares at Bucky. For just a heartbeat, Bucky recognizes his mother. Until Alex opens his goddamn mouth.

“Not the _better_ half.” 

His words, which he wholeheartedly believes, hit Bucky like a thunderbolt. Bucky’s heart sinks. Wherever they’ve taken Steve, because Bucky allowed them to take him without even putting up a fight…he’s a Third Class Passenger. He doesn’t stand a chance. He’s going to die. 

And Alex knows this as well as Bucky. And he enjoys watching the horror that washes through Bucky now with an arrogant smirk. 

“C’mon, Winnie,” Peggy says. “Your turn. First Class seats are right up here.”

She practically pulls her away from Bucky, handing her over to Officer Lightoller who helps her into the boat. Peggy holds her hand out to Bucky to help him next.

“You know,” Alex says, haughty and proud and cruel, “it’s a pity I didn’t keep that drawing. It’ll be worth a lot more by morning.” 

Another rocket bursts overhead, bathing them in white light. Bucky’s heart pounds. With great and glorious fury. 

“You unimaginable bastard.” 

Alex simply smirks and scoffs a chuckle as though simply amused by Bucky’s quiet outburst. By his emotions. By his very existence. 

“Come on, James,” Peggy calls, hand still held out to him. “There’s plenty of room for you. You’re next, darlin’.” 

Gaze shifting from Alex to the boat, where his mother has just finished seating herself, Bucky just stands there. When he doesn’t move even an inch, Winifred gestures for him to come.

“Get in the boat, James,” she says, firm and demanding.

“Come on.” Alex holds his hand out. “Let’s go.”

Bucky would rather jump onto the boat than take Alex’s hand. He looks at it and then his mother. Takes a step back. Disbelief flashes in Winifred’s eyes. 

“James,” she says, harder now, and takes a glimpse around like she can’t believe she has to tell him twice. “ _Get into the boat_.” When he still does nothing but stare at her, she clearly loses her patience. “ _James_.”

Bucky shakes his head and does what he was too afraid to do earlier. What he’s wanted to do for almost a year now. 

He says, “Goodbye, Mother,” and takes one parting glance at Alex before he turns to leave them behind for good.

“James?” she calls after him, and Bucky, for the first time, can hear actual panic in her voice. “James! Come back! Come back here right now!”

Her demands for him to turn around and come back do nothing to slow Bucky down. Especially knowing that Alex has given chase. Bucky rushes to get away before he can catch him. 

“Please!” Winifred still yells. “Bucky! Bucky, _please_ , come back!”

That makes Bucky stumble over his feet. Hearing her call him by that name. The desperation in her voice. The _please_. It causes him to hesitate _just_ enough that Alex grabs him roughly by the arm and yanks him back. 

This time, Bucky doesn’t go with him. He fights regardless of Alex’s demands for him to stop. Bucky won’t. He’ll fight to his very last breath if he has to. But he’ll never go back to him again. 

“Where are you going?” Alex yells, grabbing Bucky by the shoulders and forcing him to face him. “What? To _him_? Is that it? To be a _whore_ to a gutter rat?”

Bucky narrows his eyes and glares daggers at him. “I’d rather be _his_ whore than _your_ husband.”

Alex clenches his jaw and viciously tightens his grip on Bucky’s arm. He tries to tug him back to the lifeboat. Bucky pulls back. Alex tries again.

“No!” he yells and yanks again. Even harder when Bucky still resists. “I said _no_!”

Since Bucky’s unable to break free this way and will absolutely not go back to that lifeboat no matter what, he does the only thing he can think of. Just like Steve showed him, he plants his feet, balls up a fist, and slugs Alex right in the jaw. 

What Steve hadn’t prepared him for was how much it would hurt to actually punch someone, but the force of it not only gets Alex to release that unrelenting grip, it also makes him bleed. Well worth the pain, and as Bucky turns to run, he can hear Officer Lightoller ordering the lifeboat to be lowered away.

“No, wait! Please, wait! My son! My son is still…Bucky! Bucky, no!” 

Bucky hears the last of his mother’s cries, and something inside hurts, but he won’t stop. He can’t. He’s going to find Steve. He _needs_ to find Steve. In order to do that, though, he must first find the person who can tell him where he might be. 

Bucky runs into the First Class entrance and down the staircase, pushing past the gentlemen and ladies who are filling up the steps. He scans the A-deck foyer. He doesn’t see Mr. Stark anywhere. Worried that one punch might not be enough to thwart Alex’s attempts at bringing him back again, Bucky doesn’t linger. He runs down the rest of the stairs and across the A-Deck foyer.

The first corridor he checks only has passengers in it, many of them still moseying about and taking their time. Unaware of the present danger and emergency they’re actually in. Around the corner, Bucky finds an empty hallway.

“Mr. Stark?” he calls as he searches. “Mr. Stark?”

There are still more people he comes across as he looks up and down the corridors. A few of them have lifejackets on. Some of them are collecting precious possessions. None of them are Mr. Stark. 

“Mr. Stark?!”

Bucky runs down two more corridors, looking into open doorways as he does, until he nearly flies right by him. Mr. Stark is coming out of a room he’s just checked for any passengers. 

“Steward!” he says to a passing crewman ushering some gentleman down the hall. “Check the starboard corner!”

“Yes, Mr. Stark!”

To a woman still standing in her doorway pulling gloves on her hands, Mr. Stark says, “Madam, please, hurry and get to the boat deck immediately.” Then, to a maid, touching her cheek gently, “Sweetheart, please, put on your lifevest, set a good example.” He pushes another door open. “Is anyone in here?!”

“Mr. Stark!” Bucky calls, breathless as he hurries to him. “Mr. Stark, thank god!” When he reaches him, Mr. Stark looks horrified to see him there. “Where would the Master at Arms bring someone under arrest?”

“Wh- no. No, James, you need to get to the boats right away!”

He attempts to turn Bucky to send him back the way he came. As kindhearted and well-meaning as it is, Bucky jerks away from him and huffs, moving back to face him again.

“No!” he shouts. “It’s _Steve_ , Mr. Stark. I have to find him! I’m going to do this with or without your help. But without will take longer.”

Mr. Stark looks at him like he’d give anything to change his mind, but sighs, beaten, and nods. 

“Take the elevator to the very bottom.” He points toward the direction of the elevator bank. “Go left, down the crewman's passage, then make a right and go left again at the stairs. You’ll come to a long corridor. The office is down there.”

“Bottom, left, right, left. I have it.” Bucky nods, committing these directions to memory. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Please, hurry, James.”

Breaking into a run, Bucky rushes back to the foyer. There are still tons of people gathered around and he struggles to get through the crowd.

“Excuse me,” he says as he maneuvers around them. “Pardon me. Thank you.”

Finally reaching the elevators, Bucky almost falls over in his haste to get into one. Only he’s stopped by the operator, who’s clearly been telling other people that he won’t be working them.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the lifts are _closed_.”

Scared and frustrated and simply exhausted, Bucky grabs him and shoves him back into the elevator.

“I’m _through_ being polite, goddamnit!” he shouts. “Now take me down!”

The operator, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, fumbles to close the gate and start the lift.

“F-Deck,” Bucky demands and leans back against the wall in an attempt to catch his breath as they go down. 

Through the wrought-iron door of the elevator car, Bucky can see the decks going past. One by one. Not nearly quickly enough. The lift slows as it approaches its destination. 

“Come on,” Bucky whispers to himself. “Come on, come on…”

Something beneath them catches Bucky’s attention, and before he can comprehend what it is, ice water swirls around his legs, almost reaching his knees. Bucky screams in surprise. So does the operator. 

“I’m goin’ back up!” he shouts. “I’m goin’ back up!”

“No!” Bucky pleads. “No, no, wait!”

He claws the door open and splashes out, freezing water soaking through his trousers. Behind him, the lift operator stands on the little chair to keep himself dry.

“Come back!” he yells at Bucky. Bucky looks at him without budging. “I’m goin’ back!”

The man, terror filling his entire face, pulls the lever toward him and makes the lift go back up, water pouring out of it as it does. Bucky just watches as he’s left down here and then looks around. 

“Left,” he says to himself, remembering Mr. Stark’s directions. “Crew passage…” He only needs to walk a little way before spotting the right corridor. “Crew passage.”

As Bucky makes his way through the passages, turning right and then left, he wonders how anyone can possibly find their way through this maze. Everything looks horribly similar and even with directions from the man who designed her, Bucky still ends up turned around and unsure if he’s still headed the right way. 

He turns into a cross-corridor, splashing down the hall. There’s a row of doors on each side. Any one of them could have Steve behind them. Or even none of them. Bucky sloshes forward.

“Steve?!” he shouts. Prays that the right person will hear his calls. “Steve!” Bucky pushes through the water, farther down the corridor, all the while calling Steve’s name. “Steve!”

“Bucky!”

Halfway down the hall, Bucky spins around and freezes. He holds his breath, waiting for any other sound.

“I’m here! I’m in here!”

Breath punched right out of his lungs, Bucky heads back the other way, back where Steve’s voice came from.

“Steve!”

“In here! I’m here!” 

Moving as fast as he can through this water that might as well be thick as molasses, Bucky finally locates the right door and pushes it open, having to shove his shoulder against it to fit through. This causes a small wave to crash through the room, but right on the other side of it, secured to the exposed piping, is Steve, and Bucky’s never been so relieved in his entire life.

“Steve!” he cries as he splashes toward him. “Oh, Steve, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

As soon as he reaches him, Bucky throws his arms around him. They kiss, frantically. It might even be embarrassing how happy they are to see each other if only they weren’t in such a dire situation.

“It wasn’t me, Bucky,” Steve gets out between rushed kisses. “That guy Rumlow put it in my pocket.”

“I know, I know!” He holds Steve’s face between his hands and kisses more. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Eyes dropping to Steve’s wrists, Bucky’s breath staggers. His hand falls to the chain between the two cuffs keeping Steve trapped here. In this room. With water quickly filling it. 

“Bucky, listen,” Steve says, calmly yet with every bit of urgency Bucky feels. “You’re going to have to find a spare key, all right?” He jerks his chin at something on the wall across from them. “Check that cabinet over there.” Bucky nods and as he rushes over, Steve adds, “It’s a little silver one, Bucky.”

“Siver,” Bucky whispers to himself as his hands move over all the keys dangling on little metal hooks. His heart falls. “These are all brass ones!”

“Okay, okay.” Steve gestures to the desk staring to bob up and down in the water. “Check there.” Bucky’s just pulled out the first drawer when Steve asks, “Bucky?” Bucky stops what he’s doing to give Steve his attention. “How’d you find out I didn’t do it?”

“I didn’t.” Bucky shrugs and accepts the truth that he missed before. “I just realized I already knew.”

For a moment, they gaze at each other. In that moment, no words are needed. Everything they feel shines through their eyes. Warmth. Forgiveness. Adoration. 

Until Steve shakes his head and tells Bucky to keep looking and the horror washes over him again as he digs through drawer after drawer. Through the porthole, Bucky can see a lifeboat hit the water and recognizes Princess Shuri and Queen Ramonda aboard it. He thinks, perhaps, that Princess Shuri catches a glimpse of him and Steve through the glowing glass before they disappear beneath the water. 

“No key,” Bucky whispers after he’s trashed the room from end to end. “Steve, there’s no key!”

They look around at the water, now almost two feet deep. Steve has pulled his feet up onto the bench next to him to keep out of it as long as possible.

“All right, Bucky, listen,” he says. “You’re gonna have to go find help.” Bucky’s heart slams against his chest. He just found Steve. The thought of leaving him again, in this room flooding with water, frightens him more than anything. “It’ll be okay, Bucky.”

There’s no other choice. It’s either leave Steve again, here by himself or watch him drown locked to a pipe. Bucky sucks in a deep breath and sloshes back over to him. He’s not leaving without a kiss. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, leaving a hand at the side of Steve’s face. “I promise.”

“Don’t worry.” Steve flashes a grin. “I’ll wait right here.”

Even at a time like this Steve is able to make him laugh. It might be weak and terrified, but it’s still a laugh, and Bucky turns to rush back out into the corridor. He looks from left to right, trying to figure out which way to go. 

Bucky runs to the nearest stairwell going up to the next deck. He climbs the stairs, the tail end of his coat leaving a trail in the water behind him. The weight of it is slowing him down so he rips it and his waistcoat off, then bounds up the stairs, the water making his shirt practically translucent against his skin. 

He finds himself in a long corridor not yet touched by water, part of the labyrinth of steerage hallways. Bucky stands there for a moment. Alone. A long groan of stressing metal echoes along the hall as the ship continues to settle under the weight of all the tons of water filling it. Squeezing it. Consuming. He runs down the hall, unimpeded now.

“Hello?” he calls as he runs. “Somebody? Anybody?!”

Bucky turns a corner and runs along another corridor in a daze, still crying out for someone to help. The halls slopes down into water which shimmers, reflecting in the light. He stops, out of breath and dizzy, watching the water creep toward him. A man appears, then, running through the water and sending up geysers of spray. 

The man flies past him without slowing, his eyes crazed and panicked. Bucky tries to grab hold of his jacket, but he jerks away, possibly not even noting that anyone is there with him.

“Wait! Please! Help me! We need…”

Just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone again. This is an absolute nightmare. The water trickling closer. The gongs of terrifying sounds. The lights flicker and go out, leaving Bucky in utter darkness.

He slams back into the wall, catching a gasp in the palms of his hands. A beat later the lights come back on and Bucky finds himself choking on his breaths. The one moment of blackness was the most terrifying of his life. Nothing is working. If he doesn’t get back to Steve soon, he might not be able to at all.

Hope bursts through him when a steward rounds the corner with an armful of lifejackets, his eyes going wide when he sees Bucky there.

“Ah, sir,” he says, frazzled and hurried. “You shouldn’t be here. Come on, we’ll get you topside.”

He grabs him forcefully by the arm, pulling Bucky along with him like a wayward child. Bucky jerks back.

“No, wait,” Bucky says. “Please, there’s a man down here and—”

“No need to panic,” he replies, though the panic is plain on _his_ face and in all his frantic movements. “Come along. This way.”

“No, no!” Bucky insists. “Not this way! You’re going the _wrong way_!”

When Bucky screams this, the man turns around and Bucky cannot help his reaction. He won’t listen. He won’t stop. He won’t let go. So Bucky socks him square in the jaw, just like he did to Alex. 

The man staggers back, wiping his hand across his nose and smearing the blood that’s dripping from it. He glares at Bucky and makes his way away from him.

“The hell with you!” 

“I’ll meet you there!” Bucky shouts after him and spits in that direction just for added insult. 

Turning around in a full circle, Bucky’s heart leaps to his throat when he sees a glass case with a fire-ax in it. Better to return with that than nothing at all. Discarded down the hall is a battered suitcase that Bucky uses to break the glass. He seizes the ax and runs back the way he came. 

At the stairwell, he staggers to a halt with a gasp. He looks down to see that the water has flooded the bottom few steps. Five at least. Bucky climbs down the stairs and has to crouch to look along the corridor to the room where Steve is trapped. There’s low rumbling and creaking come from everywhere.

“Oh my god…”

Bracing himself as best he can, Bucky plunges into the now waist-deep water and powers forward, holding the ax above his head with both hands. Pain bites at his body from the freezing water. It hurts. Horribly. He strains and grimaces at the cold and pushes onward until he makes it back to the room where Steve is now trying to balance himself on the back of the bench, hugging the pipe.

“Steve!”

Steve’s gaze flies to him as soon as he shoves the door open. It closes again under the weight of the water. 

“Bucky…”

“Will this do?”

Eyes glancing to the ax he’s brought back with him, Steve breathes out softly and gives him a shrug. The panic they both feel fills the air but neither of them are willing to pay any attention to it. 

“I guess we’ll find out.” Before Bucky can reach him, Steve stops him. “Wait, wait, wait. Try a few practice swings. Over there.”

He gestures toward a wooden cabinet and Bucky takes a good grip on the ax’s handle. He heaves it over his shoulder, slamming the blade right through the wood. It takes a bit of effort to work it back out again.

“Okay, okay,” Steve says. “Now try to hit that same spot again. You can do it, Bucky.”

Nodding, Bucky once again takes a good grip and swings, only this time, he hits a spot a good five inches to the right of the first mark. Heart falling, Bucky doesn’t move. He didn’t even come close. 

“Okay.” Steve shakes his head with a wince. “That’s enough practice.”

“Steve…”

He’s going to kill him. Or chop his hand off and make him bleed to death. He can’t do this.

“Come on, Bucky, you can do this.” He positions the chain connecting the two cuffs, stretching it taut across the steel pipe. The chain is so very short, and his exposed wrists are on either side of it, and Bucky’s going to hit him, he knows it. “Listen, just hit it really hard, and really fast.” Mouth dry as sand, Bucky nods as he gets into position. “Wait, wait. Spread your hands a little more.”

Bucky does. “Like this?”

“Right. Good. Listen, Bucky, I trust you, okay? You can do this.”

Hands gripped around the handle, Bucky raises the ax. Steve, hiding his head behind the pipe, squeezes his eyes closed. Bucky closes his as well and swings the axe down. 

~~~

The clang of the blade hitting the pipe makes Steve want to scream. He can’t, though. Because his hands are suddenly ripped away from one another. Because the chain between the cuffs snaps in half. Because Bucky did it. He _did_ it. Steve throws his free hands up to look at them, still cuffed but apart, and lets out an elated cry. 

“You did it!”

Bucky, who’s panting and trembling from more than just the cold, drops the ax. It hits the water with a splash as Bucky flings his arms around Steve. 

“Holy shit,” he swears. “That was so scary.”

Steve, both hands still attached to his body, laughs and kisses him. 

“Never doubted you for a second.” He takes hold of his hand and slips into the water. “Come lets—” Steve loses his breath for a second. “Holy shit!” The water bites down on his skin like thousands of sharp teeth. “Shit, shit! That’s cold! Wow, that’s cold!”

Hand still wrapped in Bucky’s, Steve makes for the door and they wade through the water down the hall until they reach the first stairwell. Next to him, Bucky gasps. Water has completely overflowed the stairs. They can’t get up that way.

“This is…” Bucky stutters. “This is the way out!”

“Come on.” Steve turns them back the other way. “We’ll have to find another way.”

They turn and go back the other way, sloshing through waist-deep water. Keeping a firm grip on Bucky’s hand, he tows him through the water. As long as they keep moving, they won’t succumb to this infernal freeze. At least, not right away. 

After an eternity of searching, zigzagging through endless halls, they finally come to a dry one. There’s a stairwell just a little farther ways down, but before they make their way to it, Steve brings Bucky to the side. He rubs his hands up and down his shoulders. 

When he came back with the ax, he was completely soaked and disheveled. He’d left his suit jacket somewhere. A few buttons were missing from his shirt which sucked to his skin. His teeth rattled. Steve tugs him into his arms and tried warming him that way. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need to rest?”

Though a tremble runs through him, Bucky shakes his head and gives Steve something of a smile. 

“I’m not that fragile, Steve.” He fakes a small laugh. “A little freezing water isn’t going to do me in.” 

The comment does make Steve chuckle albeit darkly. A little might not but a lot sure will. And a lot is on the way. 

“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s go.” 

Hand-in-hand, they go up the steps and down another corridor. This one leads to a locked door. Above it reads _crew only_. Steve tries jiggling the doorknob but it won’t open so he eases Bucky away from him and shoves his shoulder into the door. He does this once with no success. His second try makes the wood start to buckle and crack. On his third, Steve finally breaks through it and he and Bucky tumble into another corridor.

This one is wider than the others and looks as though it runs across the entire length of the ship. At the moment, it’s being used by both crew and passengers alike. Steve and Bucky join them and follow in that direction.

Behind them, a steward marches over and begins scolding them. Something about the door and it being White Star Line property. Them having to pay for it. At the very same time, they both fling a glare over their shoulders. 

“Shut up!” they scream in unison and continue walking, leaving the steward to stagger over mild confusion. 

Together with Bucky, Steve walks with the straggling Steerage passengers along the corridor, some parts of it completely blocked off by families trying to carry all their luggage. A steward or two they pass are yelling at these people about this. Saying they’ve already been told not to bring their baggage with them. A futile effort not being executed with any compassion at all. Most of the people they’re yelling at don’t even speak English and those that do are trying to keep hold of literally everything they have to their names. 

Steve keeps looking around. Over the tops of people’s heads and through the crowds. He needs to find Sam and the others. If he doesn’t, he can only pray that they’ve been let up and reached the boats. Perhaps, by some miracle, they’ve gotten aboard one. Every time they come across a new crowd of people by another stairwell, he calls out for them. Nothing, so far. 

Next to him, Bucky is blue-lipped and shivering. Steve doesn’t like the way he looks. The paleness to his cheeks. If he doesn’t warm up, Steve fears they won’t even make it to the upper decks. Not to mention the fact that he can’t keep from shivering anymore either. 

A woman in the crowd must notice as well. Either that or she quickly takes in Bucky’s disheveled appearance and, for the sake of modesty, hands him one of the blankets that other passengers have. White Star Line property. 

“Here you are, sonny,” she says as she gives it to him. “Keep yourself warm.”

Bucky smiles and either out of sheer desperation of the cold or simple politeness takes it and throws it around his shoulders. He pulls the ends of it tightly around him and huddles under it. Steve once again takes to rubbing his hands up and down Bucky’s arms. 

“Try some of this.” The woman’s husband hands Bucky a flask. “That’ll take the chill off.”

Once again, Bucky takes it and drinks a mighty big gulp before handing it over to Steve. Steve nods in thanks to both him and the man and does the same. Whiskey. It certainly adds some heat to his body. 

Along the way, Steve’s been trying doors and iron gates. All of them, so far, have been locked. The crew has them trapped down here. Steve wonders briefly what’s going on above them. If all the boats have been filled already or if they still have some sort of sporting chance. If Alex is looking for Bucky or if he’s given up on him and saved his own ass. Perhaps he’s tried to bribe one of the officers into giving him and that horrible manservant of his a seat on a lifeboat. If he even bothers with Rumlow. Steve really wouldn’t put it past him if he just let the man to his own devices while paying his own way to survival. 

Then again, that money could’ve gotten Bucky out of here. He wouldn’t be trapped down in this metal maze with Steve. Probably doomed. 

Shifting his gaze away from the back of the heads in front of them, Steve takes a long look at Bucky. At this boy– _man_ –who grew up with riches and wealth beyond Steve’s wildest dreams. Who dreams of being someone so much more than the delicate person the world expects him to be. Who came down here for Steve. 

A hard lump grows in Steve’s throat. Makes it hard to breathe. He’ll see Bucky through this. Even if it’s the last thing he does. 

Just as this thought enters Steve’s mind, and his heart and soul accept it for the absolute truth it is, Bucky looks over at him. When their eyes meet, a soft smile pulls up on his face. Even now, Bucky smiles at him. Smiles with all the trust and adoration Steve’s ever hoped to earn. 

“I’m gonna get us out of here,” Steve murmurs and adds a kiss to Bucky’s brow. “I promise.”

And what he means is: _I’m getting you out of here. I love you_. 

It looks as though Bucky means to answer him, but something catches his attention first. His eyes go wide and he points at the main stairwell that they’re approaching. 

“Steve,” he says, “look.”

Following Bucky’s finger, Steve looks to where he’s pointing. His heart swells to an enormous size when he sees Sam standing there with Natalia and her family. Next to them is Laura with Lila and Cooper. No Clint.

“Sam!” he shouts. “Sammy!”

The second Sam clearly hears his voice–or maybe just his name–he starts looking around for him. When he sees him, his face fills with great relief and he rushes over, arms open. Steve throws his arms around him and they embrace for a few seconds. 

“Where the hell’ve you been, man?” Sam asks before they part, voice thick with tears. 

“Long story,” Steve whispers and kisses the side of Sam’s head before pulling away. He moves next for Natalia, who gives him a hug as well and then goes back to holding Sam’s hand. “Where’s Clint?”

Sam points over the heads of the people crowded on the steps. At the top of it, hands clenched around the metal gates, Clint stands arguing with the crew on the other side of it. 

“You can’t keep up locked up down here like animals!” he yells. “The ship’s bloody sinking! For chrissake we hadda follow the rats just to make it here!”

As their exchange continues, Lila tugs at the end of Laura’s dress. While Laura’s attention had been firmly on her husband and the men he’s arguing with, her face clears and she looks down at her daughter. 

“What are we doing, Mommy?”

“Just waitin’, dear,” she tells her. “When they’re finished loadin’ up the First Class people then they’ll be startin’ with us, and we’ll want to be all ready, don’t we?”

Lila nods with a smile, satisfied with her mother’s fib. Once she’s looking at her doll again, Laura’s face grows dark and hard as she goes back to watching the men on the stairs. 

One of the stewards up there has just pulled out a ring of keys while another yells to bring forward the woman. They all stand there like guarding an enemy fort. The man with the keys unlocks the gate and they open it only a foot or so, allowing a few women to squeeze through. 

“Women only!” the man yells as the crowd pulses. “No men!”

But some men–frightened and not all of them able to understand English–try to rush through the gap, shoving the gate open some more. The crewmen and stewards push them back, shoving and punching them.

“Get back!” the steward yells. “Get back, you lot!” To the crewman, he says, “Lock it! Lock it up!”

They struggle to get the gate closed again, while one of them brandishes a small revolver. Another holds a fire ax. They lock the gate, and a cry goes up among the crowd as it surges forward, pounding against the steel and shouting in several languages.

“For the love of God, man, there are children down here!” Clint roars. “Let us up, so we can have a chance!”

But the crewmen only exchange fearful looks. This situation has gotten out of hand and no matter what they do, they’ve created a mob. A mob they’ve doomed to die. 

The man with the gun points it right at Clint and tells him to back away. Jaw tight and eyes hard, Clint gives up and pushes his way back through the crowd to join his family. They have let the situation get out of hand, and now they have a mob. If they open the gates, they’ll be trampled. 

“Steve!” Clint shouts when he sees he and Bucky are there. They embrace quickly before Clint gestures back up the stairs. “This way is hopeless.”

“Whatever we’re gonna do we gotta do it fast,” Steve tells them. “This whole place is flooding.” 

“There’s _nothing_ that way,” Sam says, pointing down the way Steve and Bucky came from. “The boats are all gone.” 

After a quick glance around and back up there stairwell where the stewards and crewmen are still not opening the gates, Steve looks down the one way none of them have tried yet. 

“All right.” Steve nods at his own decision and hopes they all agree with him. Staying here will get them nowhere and he already knows, as Sam does, that there’s nothing back the other way. “Let’s go this way.” 

As soon as he says it, Clint reaches down and scoops both Lila and Cooper into his arms, leaving their two small suitcases for Laura to carry. Sam, hand-in-hand with Natalia, starts to follow, only to be stopped when she doesn’t go. Everyone freezes as she begins speaking with her family. Though Steve can’t understand them, he can feel the urgency in the way she talks to them. Pleading with them, clearly, to go along. 

But her father, standing firm and resolute, refuses to move. He shakes his head. Eases his wife behind him. Takes Natalia by the arm and pulls her back to them. This man will not let his family go with them. 

“No, no, no,” Sam whispers. “Talia, please. _Please_ , tell them. We can’t go this way. They’re not gonna let us up.” 

This is not good. Steve hadn’t considered this, but then, the Romanovs hadn’t been very happy with their daughter spending so much time with these two Americans. Sam, in particular, and there’s no question why. No matter the prejudice they’ll face in the Land of the Free, they come with their own as well. Even now. 

“Natalia,” Steve tries. “You can’t stay here.”

Eyes falling closed, Natalia nods and once again attempts to convince her parents to go away from here and follow them. When her father still shakes his head, taking a tighter grip on her arm, even Bucky steps closer and beckons them to come along. Whatever he’s saying to them, Natalia nods along and tugs on her father’s sleeve and picks up her mother’s suitcase. 

“ _Mама,_ ” she says. “ _папа_ , _пожалуйста_ …”

Neither of them budge and tears fill Natalia’s eyes as she buries her face in her palms in the first real vulnerability she’s shown. She composes herself relatively quickly and sucks in a deep breath, forcing something of a smile. If Steve hadn’t already seen that naked fear, he might actually be fooled into believing that she was just as composed as she wanted them to think. 

Natalia pats her father’s hand and whatever she says to him makes Bucky shudder into Steve’s side even though she steps away from her parents. A soft smile touches Sam’s face as she steps up to him and they kiss. It falls when she moves back to her parents.

“Natalia,” he begs. “Come with us.” Sam shakes his head and amends that. “Come with _me._ _Please_.”

“We’ll be right behind you,” she murmurs. “Go on ahead.”

“But–”

“Natalia,” Steve says. “All of this is going to be underwater soon. You can’t stay here.”

She nods, understanding, but still unwilling to go without her parents. Steve can’t blame her. He wouldn’t leave his mother behind. And by the look on Sam’s face, he doesn’t either, because he, too, wouldn’t leave behind any of his family. 

“Good luck to you,” she says, softly. “All of you.” 

Sam, shoulders falling and head drooping, steps up to her and cups her face between his hands. At first, Steve thinks Sam might decide to stay here with them and his heart just plummets. He might already be losing Natalia, the thought of losing Sam at the same time just hurts in ways he never thought possible. 

But Sam holds her for a moment before pressing another kiss to her lips. Soft and tender and in it, a heartfelt and compassionate goodbye. 

“I’ll never forget you.”

She whispers something back to him; something Steve cannot hear. Whatever it is, it makes Sam’s eyes squeeze closed and he nods again. Natalia adds one last kiss and she gently moves out of their sweet embrace. 

When no one moves, Natalia grins and then gives Sam’s shoulder a shove. “Well, what do you wait for? Go. Go, you silly fools.” 

They do leave then, down the way that Steve suggested, and Sam, Steve knows, looks back at Natalia until she disappears from sight. 

They pick up the pace then, quickly losing themselves in the criss-cross of nearly identical halls and they search for a way out. They push past confused passengers. Past a mother changing her baby's diaper on top of an upturned steamer trunk. A woman in a heated argument with a man in another language with a wailing child next to them. There’s a man kneeling as he tries to console a woman who is just sitting on the floor, sobbing. Another man with an English/Arabic dictionary, trying to figure out what the signs mean, while his wife and children wait patiently.

Everything is chaos and no one is there to help them along the way. All doors and passageways they come across are locked until Steve comes upon a narrow stairwell and they go up two decks before they are stopped by a small group pressed up against a steel gate. The steerage men are yelling at a scared steward.

“Go to the main stairwell,” he’s saying. “That’s where you need to go.”

Steve shoves his way through the small crowd of people there and reaches through the gate to hold his finger up to the man keeping them down there.

“Open the gate,” he demands through his teeth. “You need to let us out of here.” 

“Go back down to the main stairwell with everyone else,” the steward repeats. “It'll all get sorted out there.”

Face growing hard and breaths backing up, Steve says again, more forcefully this time, “Open the gate right now!”

Not being swayed even the smallest amount, the steward flicks his hand at them as though he’s simply shooing them away. 

“Go _back down_ to the main stairwell like I told you!”

That’s it then. Nothing Steve did would ever make these people give them a fighting chance. They might as well be dirt on the bottom of their shoes. 

Crestfallen and nearly beaten, Steve sighs and turns, not sure what to do next. He can listen and go back to the main stairwell where Natalia and her family have remained. Back where he knows damn well they’re not letting anyone through. He can try wandering through this endless labyrinth some more and hope that they come across some steward or crewman that might show them mercy. He can stay here and try to make this guy see reason. 

Which will likely be impossible. Because he doesn’t care. None of them care that there are people down here. Head hanging, Steve peers up and looks at Bucky who so bravely came down here to save him. At Sam’s steadfast but heartbroken expression. At Clint and Laura holding their children. He thinks of Natalia with her family. 

So many people. Men. Women. Children. Hundreds of people that they’re willing to leave down here to die. 

This thought burns hot and fast in Steve’s chest and simply can’t take it anymore. Something inside of his snaps and he spins around to grab hold of that gate keeping them trapped there, violently shaking and kicking at it. 

“God damn it son of a bitch!”

As the man once again scolds him, telling him to go back to the main stairwell, Steve spots a wooden bench bolted to the floor. He runs over and starts pulling on it, feeling it give way.

“Sammy, Clint!” he shouts. “Gimme a hand!”

They hurry over to pitch in until the bolts shear and it breaks free. Both Bucky and Laura have figured out what they are doing and clear a path in the small hall between the waiting people.

“Watch out, watch out!” Laura instructs, shoving people to the side.

“Put that down!” the steward is yelling at them as they come closer with the bench. “Put it down!”

“Move aside!” Bucky tells the last few people in the way. “Quickly, move aside!”

Steve, Sam, and Clint run across the hall with the bench and ram it into the gate with all their strength. The thing shudders and starts to come off its hinges.

“Again!” Steve shouts. 

They back up a bit and slam the end of the bench into the gate again and this time, it rips loose from its track and falls outward, narrowly missing the steward. He even needs to backpedal to avoid getting hit. 

Once the gate is out of the way, Steve hops over the bench, the only obstacle left in the way, he turns to grab Bucky’s hand. With a little help from Sam, Bucky climbs over the bench and then Laura before he and Clint follow. 

“C’mon,” Steve says, leading the way. “Let’s go.”

“You can’t go up there!” the steward, who stands there dumbfounded, says. “You _can’t_ go this—”

Whatever other ridiculous things the man tried to say is cut off by Clint’s fist and all the other people now clamber out of the lower decks. With Steve in the lead, they break into a run, only slowing a bit when Laura starts having pains in her sides. Bucky valiantly takes it upon himself to pick up Cooper and, following his lead, Steve grabs Lila. 

Once the children are secured at their hips, Sam and Clint are able to help Laura, and they resume running until they burst out onto the boat deck from the crew stairs just aft of the third funnel. Both Lila and Cooper struggle to get down and when they do, they climb up into their parents’ embrace. 

Now out on the decks they tried so hard to get to, Steve is sure everyone is seeing the same thing he does. The empty davits. 

“The boats are gone…” Bucky says, his eyes searching the crowd for someone who might help them, and if anyone would know who would, it’d be him.

They stand there for a moment, all huddled together as people of all different classes scramble across the deck in a rush to find some safe way off the ship. With good reason. 

It slants down into the water now, even still ablaze with light. Nothing is above the water forward of the bridge except for the foremast. A rocket goes off, lighting up the entire area. There are a dozen boats moving outward from the ship in the dark water. 

From somewhere off in the distance, Steve can hear someone yelling to them, possibly through a metal megaphone, and a whistleblowing.

“This is the captain speaking!” he yells. “Come back to the ship! Come back!”

None of them even pause as they continue rowing away, and those that’re already far from the ship, do nothing to come back as requested. 

At the side, there’s another panic. Someone screams from a boat already in the water as the next boat that’s being lowered hovers right over them. The passengers are shouting to the crew to stop but are ignored. Steve hears people shouting for the lines to be cut. From somewhere else, he hears gunshots.

Everything is starting to fall apart. 

He catches a glimpse of King T’Chaka offering a lifejacket to someone as he heads back into the First Class Entrance. He tells the young woman that he’s given the jacket to that he’s seen his wife and children onto a boat and is prepared to go out like the king he is. By the entrance, Pietro Maximoff and his brother-in-law are ushering women and children of all classes out onto the decks. 

Steve’s gaze has just landed upon Thor and Loki Odinson walking side-by-side down the deck, each insisting the other take the one lifebelt between them when Bucky breaks away from him. At first, Steve’s instinct is to hold onto his hand tighter so he doesn’t lose him. But he lets go, trusting that he won’t abandon them. 

Which he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky runs to Everett Ross, the man he pointed out the other night as liaison to the Wakandan Royal family. Currently, he’s offering his jacket to one of the two women he’s helping down the deck. 

“Mr. Ross,” Bucky shouts as he approaches, taking hold of his arm. “Are there any boats left?”

He looks at Bucky for a second as though he doesn’t even recognize him in this bedraggled state. The wet hair. Ripped shirt under the blanket. Pants soaked. Nothing like the poised gentleman he last saw. Still, he quickly regains himself and nods. 

“Yes,” he says, and gestures in front of him. “There are still some boats all the way forward. I can show you if you’d—”

Not giving him the chance to finish his offer, kind as it is, Steve grabs Bucky by the hand again and they spring away with Sam and the Bartons right behind them. As they hurry to where Ross indicated there are more boats, Steve hears music playing. Unbelievably, the band is not only still set up on the deck, they’ve continued playing music. 

“Music to drown by,” Clint scoffs. “Now I know we’re in First Class.”

By the time they make it to a crowd of people waiting—cold and scared and desperate—they’re out of breath and trembling and Laura leans over to vomit. Clint immediately starts trying to grab the attention of the officer filling the boats. Exclaiming that his wife is pregnant and ill and needs to get on a boat with their children. 

The officer keeps his pistol in his hand at this point, pointing it at the crowd so they don’t rush him. Twenty feet below them, the sea is pouring into the doors and windows of B-Deck staterooms. Steve can hear the roar of water cascading into the ship.

“Women and children only!” the officer shouts, waving for Laura and the kids to come forward. When a man steps closer, he holds a hand out. “Please, sir, step _back_!” Eyes floating across the faces in the crowd, he pauses when they land on Bucky. “Mr. Barnes,” he says, softly. “You’ve made it back.” He glances back at the boat he’s loading. With the addition of Laura and the children, it’ll be pretty full. “I’ll be sure to save a space for you on the next boat.” 

These words create more relief than Steve’s ever felt in his life. This man is going to let Bucky on the boat. He’ll get out of here alive. Or, at the very least, Steve will see him off the sinking Titanic alive and well. Cold and scared and wet, but alive. He’ll’ve made good on that promise. That’s the best he can ask for.

Even with Steve’s arms wrapped around Bucky, he can feel him shivering with cold. As they stand there waiting for Bucky’s turn, Steve catches eyes with Clint while he hugs his family goodbye. This, they know, might be the last time they ever see him. The children have tossed their arms around him and won’t let go.

“Goodbye for a little while,” Clint is lying to them to keep them calm. “Only for a little while.” He stands and coaxes them to Laura. “There’ll be another boat for the daddies. You go with mummy now, that’s right.”

Laura hasn’t taken her eyes off of Clint, even as she takes Lila and Cooper by the hands. They lean close and kiss goodbye and when she straightens again, Clint kisses his fingers and grazes them along her belly.

“Love you,” he whispers.

She mouths it back as she stumbles into the boat with some assistance, hiding her tears from them. Beneath the false good cheer, both Clint and Laura are choked with emotion.

“That’s it,” Clint says. “Hold mummy’s hand.”

The officer holds his arms out to the sides and starts to direct the crewmen to lower the boat with the Bartons on it. The children are still crying and holding their hands up to Clint as he watches from as close to the railing he can get. He keeps blowing kisses and forcing a smile and when they finally vanish from sight over the side, he lets out a staggered and rough breath. 

Keeping one arm on Bucky, Steve claps a hand down on Clint’s shoulder while Sam slips an arm around his waist. 

“Why don’t you guys check the other side?” Steve suggests now that the officer is loading the next boat. “I’ll…” This is most likely a lie, but he needs to say it just as they’d say it to him. “I’ll meet you over there.” 

After sharing a meaningful look, Sam flings his arms around him and they hold each other for a moment. When they pull away, they say their goodbyes with their eyes, and with an added clap to the side of Steve’s face, Sam and Clint run off, searching for a way around the deckhouse. 

More people are getting into the next boat. Lifeboat number two. Around Steve, everything is very loud and fast, and yet, at the same time, the world seems to be moving in slow motion. These may be the very last few moments he spends with Bucky. 

Ever.

Some of the women are stoic, others are overwhelmed by emotion and have to be helped into the boats. One older woman holds onto her husband and simply refuses to get on the boat, no matter how hard he tries to convince her.

“Frigga,” he says. “Please, stop being so stubborn and get on the boat.”

“No.” She hugs him tighter. “We’ve been together more than forty-years, Odin, and I’m not leaving your side now. Don’t argue with me. Has it ever worked for you?”

Sighing, he presses a kiss to her forehead and nods. “I love you, my dearest one.”

Just as they embrace and walk away together, Bucky suddenly turns around and grabs the front of Steve’s shirt.

“I’m not going without you.”

Steve’s heart splinters, pieces of it shattering off bit and bit and crashing. The look on Bucky’s face, that determination, he means it, and this boat is quickly filling up now.

“No, Bucky, you have to go,” he insists. “You _have_ to.” He tries to guide Bucky closer to it but Bucky doesn’t budge. “You have to go _now_.”

“No, Steve.”

“Get on the boat, Bucky.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Steve says, moving toward him so that he has no choice but to move nearer to the boat. This time, Steve raises his voice a bit. He _needs_ Bucky to get out of here. “Get in the boat, Bucky.”

Just as Bucky goes to answer again, presumably to argue more, someone steps up to them, nearly shoving Steve to the side.

“Yes, _get_ in the boat, James.”

If Bucky’s expression is anything to go by, he’s just as shocked to see Alex here as Steve is. Unsurprisingly, Rumlow is there as well, watching on with a pair of stone-cold eyes. But Bucky steps closer to Steve, and Steve instinctively puts an arm around him. Alex, though he attempts to hide it, looks at their closeness and scowls. That expression clearing rather quickly, though, when he gets a good look at Bucky, wet and shivering under a ratty blanket.

“My god, look at you,” he says, voice significantly softer, and for just one instant, Steve can understand how he fooled Bucky. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think this man truly cared for him. “You look of fright. Here.” He reaches over, rudely moving into Bucky’s space to take the blanket off from around his shoulders and shoves it at Steve. He takes off his own jacket and puts it on Bucky. “Put this on. Come now.”

While Bucky does accept it and slips his arms through the sleeves, he seems to react mostly out of surprise that he’s even looking at Alex again. The way Alex glanced around before throwing it on him, too, makes Steve think he’s acting more out of modesty than actual affection, though, honestly, he doesn’t care. The blanket that he’s now holding is damp and the jacket, having been on Alex this whole time, has got to be warmer, and that’s best for Bucky. 

Once it’s on, however, Alex takes to petting his hands over Bucky’s head and his hair and his cheeks. Bucky jerks away from the touch as though disgusted by it and Steve’s had enough. If he’s going to die, he’s definitely not going down while letting this gross, possessive pig of a man touch Bucky. 

Steve shoves himself between the two of them, pushing Alex back and taking his place in front of Bucky. 

“Go on,” he says, encouragingly, adding a kiss to Bucky’s brow. “I’ll get the next one.”

“ _No_.” Bucky practically growls this at him, his face hard and intense. “ _Not_ without _you_.” 

Bucky says this with all the passion and all the strength Steve’s ever heard come from someone and he hardly cares that Alex, who he’s still technically engaged to, is watching. Parting here is not something he’s prepared to accept, but Steve can’t let him stay. If he does, he’ll surely die. 

“I’ll be all right,” he says, and means, at least, he’s going to try. “I’m a survivor. It’s what I do, okay? Don’t worry about me. Go on, get on the boat.” 

Alex steps closer to them again only this time, he doesn’t intrude on their space. In fact, he appears almost sympathetic. Empathetic, even.

“I…I have an arrangement with an officer on the other side of the ship, Bucky,” he says, softly. And the tenderness in which he says Bucky’s name catches them both off guard. “Steve and I can get off safely.” He pauses and glances at Steve. “Both of us.” 

Both of them. Sure. Still, on the off-chance that Alex is telling the truth, even in the slightest, Steve fakes a smile. The very same smile that he’d use at a poker game. There’s a lot more at stake here than a small bit of money or tickets on the grandest ship in the world. 

“You see?” he says. “I’ve got my own boat to catch.” Bucky looks at him and then Alex and then back to Steve again like he doesn’t know what to believe. “Go on. Hurry.” 

Offering one last shaky smile, even Alex gestures to the filling boat as the officer holds his hand out to help Bucky onto it.

“Almost full,” he says.

“Step aboard, Mr. Barnes,” the officer says, taking hold of his waist and towing him onto the boat. “Come on.” 

“Go ahead,” Steve encourages with a smile as Bucky takes one final frantic look at him before he’s on the boat.

Steve keeps a steadying hand at his hip the whole time and the second Bucky is safely over the gap between boat and ship, he turns around and throws his hand back to him. They grab onto each other for just one second before Steve is told to get back and they start lowering the boat. 

He forces a smile and blows him a kiss. Murmurs, “Goodbye, beautiful.”

Everything happens is a rush and a blur and Steve barely gets a chance to realize this really is his and Bucky’s goodbye. 

“You’re a good liar,” Alex mutters as they both stand at the railing watching the boat lower.

Almost looking over at him, Steve nearly drops his gaze away from Bucky’s. He doesn’t, though. He keeps watching Bucky as the boat is lowered even though Bucky keeps looking from him to the people around him to the pulleys and then back to Steve again like he just can’t figure out what to look at. 

“Almost as good as you,” he replies. “There’s, uh…” Steve swallows roughly. “There’s no arrangement, is there?”

“No, there is,” Alex answers. “Not that _you’ll_ benefit much from it.” Although he fixes his gaze on Steve, Steve keeps his eye contract with Bucky. “I always win, Steve. One way or another.” 

This time, Steve lowers his eyes and swings a look at Alex. Only because he’s wrong. He hasn’t won anything. Sure, he’ll live while Steve will die, but that’s not all that counts. Steve earned Bucky Barnes’s heart, even if only for a few days. That’s worth more than anything. 

Steve, knowing he’s had more in his life than a man like Alexander Pierce can ever begin to comprehend, looks back at Bucky as the boat slowly takes him farther and farther away, not wanting to waste any of this last precious moment he has to see him.

~~~

All sound has gone away as the boat lowers. Officer Lightoller shouts his orders to the crewmen, arms out as he gives them directions, but Bucky hears nothing other than the blood pounding in his ears. His chest hurts. Everything hurts. This cannot be happening. It just can’t. 

Eyes unable to pick something to look at, Bucky frantically glances around at everything. At the pulleys lowering the boat. At the crewmen. Officer Lightoller. At the children in the boat with him, crying and waving their goodbyes to their fathers above them. Still on the ship. Same as Steve. 

Throat tight and breaths staggered, he looks up again only to have his stomach twist. Steve is watching him. Watching him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered to him. While Bucky slowly makes it to safety. Leaving him to die. Because even if there is a deal that Alex has made with someone, he’ll never let Steve benefit from it. He’d jump right now rather than help Steve. 

Another rocket bursts in the dark sky, outlying Steve in a halo of light. Hair blowing across his eyes as he gazes up at him, slowly descending away from him, Bucky sees his hand trembling and tears at the corners of his eyes, even though he manages a weak smile. Even now, he’s still trying to comfort Bucky. 

Bucky is still staring up, tears streaming down his face, unable to face the unbearable pain that clings to every fiber of his being. 

And he’s suddenly moving. 

He hurls himself over the women in front of him and when he reaches the side of the boat, he lunges over it to the rail of the A-Deck promenade.

“Bucky!” he hears Steve cry out from above him just as he catches the rail of the ship. “Bucky, no! What are you doing?!”

“Stop him!” Alex shouts. “Someone stop him!”

But Bucky’s not going to be stopped. He scrambles to climb over the rail and back onto the Titanic while the lifeboat continues down without him. Somebody helps him onto the deck while both Steve and Alex keep shouting for him to stop. 

It doesn’t matter now. Bucky’s back on the ship and he pushes by people to get back to Steve. Nothing else matters now. It’s all-consuming, this need to be with Steve for as long as he possibly can, and Bucky just runs. Pushes himself to move faster than he’s ever gone before. Across the promenade deck. Through the glass doors. Over the marble floors toward the Grand Staircase where Steve, expression full of sorrow and remorse and horror, runs just as desperately down it to reach him.

“Bucky!” he exclaims when he spots him, and Bucky, no longer caring about anything else, throws himself at him with an uncontrolled sob. “You’re so stupid!” Steve scolds and kisses while he cries anyway. “Why did you do that, huh?” He holds Bucky’s face between his hands and kisses him again. And holds him and kisses him and holds him. Again and again. “You’re so stupid! Why did you do that, _why_?”

Bucky, crying so hard he’s damn near hysterical, just holds Steve’s face in his own hands and can give him just one reason.

“To the end of the line, remember? You jump, I jump, right?”

Bottom lip quivering, Steve watches him for a moment before smiling softly and surrendering to Bucky. 

“Right.”

“Oh, Steve.” Bucky flings his arm around him again and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t go.”

“It’s okay,” Steve assures him, even if that’s nothing but a lie. “We’ll think of something. We will. I promise.”

“Please, stay with me,” Bucky says. “Please, Steve.”

“I will, I promise.” Steve pets a hand over his head. “I’m never leaving you— Bucky, watch out!”

Steve abruptly grabs him by the hand and yanks him away from the staircase just as a bullet shoots through the carved cherubic head on the railing. Heart flying to his throat, Bucky takes a horrified glance over his shoulder as they run to see that Alex has brandished a gun and gives chase. 

Alex, running down the steps after them, fires again and both Bucky and Steve shudder at the sound of it. This bullet blows a divet out of the oak paneling behind Steve’s head as he pulls Bucky down the next flight of stairs. Behind them, it sounds like Alex may have fallen, but neither of them looks to confirm this. They just keep running.

The bottom of the Grand Staircase is flooded several feet deep. Bucky and Steve dash down the stairs two at a time and run straight into the water, fording across the room to where the floor slopes up, until they reach dry footing at the entrance to the Dining Saloon. There, Steve pulls Bucky to the side and holds a finger to his lips. 

Another shot fires and then nothing for a second. Then, “I hope you enjoy your time together!”

It’s quiet for a moment or two. Steve even goes to peel away from the wall, but Bucky hears the soft sloshing from the other room and stops him. He points to his ear so that Steve will strain his own. Bucky can see the moment Steve hears what he does. Eyes going wide, he gasps slightly and then waves for Bucky to follow him. Together, they crouch behind one of the tables farther into the room just as Brock Rumlow enters it.

He moves slowly through the room, passing tables and ornate columns. Searching. Listening. His eyes track across the space, clearing looking for them. A silver serving trolley rolls downhill, bumping into things along the way. 

Brock glances behind him, and Bucky follows his gaze, his heart sinking at what he sees. The water is following him into the room, advancing in a hundred-foot wide tide. The reception room is now a roiling lake, and the Grand Staircase is submerged past the first landing. Monstrous groans echo through the ship. The lights above them spark and go dark. 

Eyes on the water inching toward them, Bucky tugs on Steve’s sleeve to alert him to it. Steve mouths a swear to the advancing water, swirling over the floor, and motions for Bucky to follow him. They quickly crawl to stay ahead of it, making it to the next row of tables without being seen. But they’re going to run out of room sooner rather than later, and Brock is still searching for them. 

“Wait here,” Steve whispers and moves away from Bucky as Brock flips a table in another row. 

The ship groans and creaks some more as Brock continues looking for them around tables and chairs. Sparks of electricity shower down from the light fixtures on the ceiling. Behind them all, plates and teacups clink together as water swirls over the tops of tables. Steve, Bucky knows, has crept around to the side of the room Brock’s focused his search to. If he keeps going, Bucky assumes Steve means to jump out at him and attack first. 

Before either of them can meet, Bucky hears a soft squeaking sounds. He looks to the side and gasps as he sees a metal cart stacked with china dishes rolling right for him. The foot of it catches on the table Bucky’s behind and the dishes topple out, showering down around him. 

He scrambles to get out of the way and when he looks up, it’s into the dark, cold eyes of Brock Rumlow. Bucky, breathless and heart-pounding, stares up at him.

“I’ve been looking for you, sir,” Brock says with a cool easy smile and points the same gun Alex had shot at them with right at him. 

Hand over one of those dishes, Bucky just reacts. He flings it at Brock and hops to his feet to run the other way. As he does, and Brock turns again, Steve tackles him from the side. They slam together into a table, crashing over it, and toppling to the floor. They land in the water which is still flowing rapidly between the tables. As Steve and Brock grapple in the icy water, Bucky quickly bends down and grabs another one of those dishes.

He looks back up just as Steve jams his knee down on Brock’s hand, breaking his grip on the gun and kicking it away. Brock scrambles back to his feet and lunges at him, but before he can reach him, Bucky runs up and smashes the dish right over his head. 

Brock staggers for a second before he doubles over, grabbing at the gash on the side of his head and smearing blood all over the side of his face. Just when he goes to push back to his feet again, Steve grabs him by the shoulders and knees him right in the face. The force of it knocks Brock off-balance and he falls to his knees, stunned. 

“Kinda _feels_ personal,” Steve mutters as he takes Bucky’s hand. “Let’s go.”

They can’t go back the way they came now. Behind them, the tables have become islands in a lake and the far end of the room is flooded up to the ceiling. They run toward the doors at the other end and find them locked when they reach them. Bucky takes a quick look over his shoulder and sees that Brock has gotten up and is looking for the gun.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “We need to get out of here. Hurry.”

Without even looking to see what Bucky has, Steve backs away a bit and then throws his shoulder right into the door. They burst open and the two of them run through the galley. Ahead of them, Bucky sees stairs that will lead them up and out of here. Only when he starts up them, Steve tugs on his arm and brings him down to the lower landing where they crouch together. 

Not a moment later, they hear Brock’s footsteps as he, too, reaches the stairs. There’s a pause, and then the footsteps recede as he clearly goes up them, assuming he’s following them. Bucky almost heaves a sigh of relief as the ship lets out another loud, heavy moan. 

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “C’mon, let’s get the hell outta here.”

Bucky nods and would follow as Steve heads back up the stairs, but he hears something off in the distance that makes him freeze. He spins back around. Crying. A child’s nearby and crying.

“Steve…” 

He’s heard it now, too, and they go down just a few steps to look along the next deck. The corridor is flooded about a foot deep. About fifty feet away from them, wailing as water swirls around his legs, is a little boy, no more than three years old. 

“Shit,” Steve breathes when he sees him.

“We can’t leave him, Steve.”

“I know.” Steve nods. “C’mon.”

They leave the promise of escape up the stairwell to run to the child. As soon as they reach him, Steve scoops up the kid and they run back to the stairs. But it’s too late.

A torrent of water comes pouring down the stairs like rapids down a mountain. In those mere seconds, it’s become too powerful for them to go against.

Charging the other way down the flooding corridor, they blast up spray with each footstep. At the end of the hall are heavy double doors. As they approach them, Bucky sees water spraying through the gap between the doors right up to the ceiling. The doors groan and start to crack under the tons of pressure, and Steve skids to a halt.

“Go back,” he rushes to say, already turning. “Go back the other way!”

Bucky pivots and runs back the way they came, taking a turn into a cross-corridor where a man is coming the other way. When he sees the boy in Steve’s arms, he cries out, grabbing him away from them and starts cursing in Russian. He runs on with the boy. Back the way they just ran from.

“No!” Bucky shouts at him in Russian. “No, not that way!”

But it’s too late. Those double doors blast open and a wall of water thunders into the corridor, swallowing the man and child instantly. Bucky and Steve run as a wave blasts around the corner, foaming from floor to ceiling. It gains on them like a locomotive. Steve screams for him to run and so Bucky _runs_ as hard as he can through the blackened hallway but the water catches them and sweeps them away, rolling them farther and farther until they slam right up against a locked metal gate. 

The water rushes through the gate, lowering around them just enough that they can manage to pull themselves away from it. All around them the lights flicker and sparks rain down from the ceiling. 

“This way!” Steve yells over the thunderous sounds, grabbing onto the fixtures on the wall to drag himself back toward another stairwell. 

When he reaches a light fixture jutting out of the wall, Steve heaves himself up to use the piping along the ceiling, grabbing onto Bucky’s wrist to help him up as well. They reach the stairs and pound up them only to be met with another locked gate. 

“Oh god!” Bucky exclaims, hands around the metal frame and shaking it. 

White water is curling and swirling up behind them, filling the stairwell already as Steve grips the bars and slams into them. 

“Help!” Steve shouts. “Somebody help us!”

Bucky cries out when water is suddenly rising all around their feet. If they don’t get out of here now, they’re going to drown.

“Help, please!” Bucky yells just as a terrified steward comes running into the hall and immediately turns for the stairs that will bring him up and away from here. “No, wait!”

The man swings his gaze back around to see them standing there, trapped behind the gate. He slows his pace and then starts up the steps again.

“Please!” Steve sceams. “Unlock the gate!”

The water wells up around them, pouring through the gate and slamming them against it. In seconds, it is up to their waist.

“Help us!” Bucky cries to the man. “Please!”

The steward stops and looks back again. He sees them there at the gate, their arms reaching through. Sees the water pouring through the gate onto the landing. Sees their desperation. 

“Oh, fucking ‘ell,” he mutters and comes racing back down. 

He slogs against the current, pulling a keyring from his belt and then struggles to unlock the padlock as the water fountains up around them. The lights short out and the landing is plunged into darkness. The water rises over the lock and he fumbles with the keys, dropping them.

He stares into the dark water, horrified, and then looks up with tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I dropped the keys. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, wait!” Steve yells as the terrified man turns and races up the stairs.

Bucky, sucking in a deep breath, plunges into the water and gropes around blindly, searching for the keys. The air in his lungs begins to burn and just as he starts feeling lightheaded, his hand lands on something and he yanks it back in between the bars, bursting through the top of the water again. With the keys. He hurries to find the right one, the keys ratting in his trembling hands. 

Finding it, he scrambles to reach through the gate and now that the water is so far over the lock, he can only try to feel around. 

“Hurry, Bucky,” Steve says urgently as the water keeps rising and rising. “Hurry…” 

Bucky fights with the key, the water reaching their chins when he finally shoves it into the lock. He’s still struggling, still trying to turn it and open the gates, and they’re at the ceiling now, the water just about to cover their heads when the gate suddenly gives and swings open. 

“Go, Bucky!” Steve shouts just as he disappears beneath the water.

Able to grab onto the overhead piping, Bucky manages to tow himself toward the stairs, sinking underwater and coughing some out when he emerges again. 

“Steve?!” he shouts when he realizes he’s not right behind him. “Steve!”

Just before he has the chance to panic, Steve pops out of the water and swims closer, telling Bucky to keep moving. 

“Go, go!” he shouts. “Just go!”

Bucky hurries to the stairs and drags himself out of the water. He and Steve run up a seemingly endless amount of stairs as the ship groans and torques around them until they finally reach the First Class Smoking Room. The room is empty save for one person. There’s a fire in the fireplace and a man stands in front of it, looking at the painting above it as an ashtray falls from one of the tables. 

Soaked and out of breath, Bucky and Steve start running through the room, headed for the revolving doors at the other end of it. Just as they cross, Bucky recognizes who it is in front of the fireplace.

“Wait, wait.” He pulls Steve to a stop. “Mr. Stark?”

As if pulled out of a daze, Mr. Stark slowly turns at the sound of his name. He looks between Bucky and Steve with shame and remorse.

“James…” 

“Aren’t you even going to make a try for it?” Bucky asks.

A tear rolls down his cheek. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry that I didn’t build you a stronger ship, young James.”

All around them, the ship creaks and shudders. Steve comes up to him to take his hand again. 

“We need to keep moving,” he murmurs. “It’s going fast.”

“Wait…” Mr. Stark approaches, pausing only to pick up the discarded lifebelt on the table next to them. He hands it to Bucky. “Good luck to you, Bucky.” 

Taking the lifejacket from him, Bucky breathes out softly and wraps his arms around him in a mournful hug.

“To you as well,” Bucky whispers, and adds a soft kiss to his cheek when he moves away. He takes one last look over his shoulder as he and Steve push through the revolving doors, at the heartbroken genius who designed this remarkable ship. 

As Bucky and Steve make their last efforts to see this through to the end with their lives, everything around them is falling apart.

On the starboard side, where Sam and Clint are still trying to escape the sinking ship, Officer William Murdoch, at Collapsible Boat A, is no longer in control. The crowd is threatening to rush the boat. They push and jostle, yelling and shouting at the officers. The pressure from behind pushes them forward, and one man falls off the edge of the deck into the water less than ten feet below.

“Stay back!” Officer Murdoch yells, pointing a gun at the crowd. “Stay back _all of you_!”

“Give us a chance to live!” Clint shouts back. “You limey bastard!”

“I’ll shoot any man that tries to get past me!”

“Bastard!” Sam yells. “You bastard!”

“Get back!”

Alex emerges through the crowd then, confident that he’ll be boarding this lifeboat until the gun in Murdoch’s hand is pointed at him. 

“I said get back!” Murdoch shouts again.

There must be some mistake. Alex gave this man a pile of money to ensure a spot on one of these boats and by God, he knows he can pay for whatever he needs.

“We had a _deal_ ,” he growls to the man holding him up. “Damn you.”

But Murdoch, much to Alex’s shock and horror, rips the money out of his pocket and quite literally _flings_ it at him like all these bills are worthless as they scatter across the deck.

“Your money can’t save you,” he says, “any more than it can save me.”

He shoves him back then, demanding, again, that everyone keep away except for women and children only. When Sam recognizes this man as Bucky’s fiancé, he gives him a shove as well, pushing him back into the crowd. 

Another man hops up onto the taut ropes, attempting to climb over, and Murdoch swings his gun that way and pulls the trigger. The shots make people scream and duck. 

A man next to Clint rushes forward, and Clint is shoved from behind. Murdoch shoots the first man, and seeing Clint coming forward, puts a bullet into his chest. Blood blossoms like an opening rose on the white of his lifebelt, and he collapses into Sam’s arms. 

“Clint!” Sam cries, holding onto him as the life flows out of his eyes. He glares at the man who did this. At the man who took his friend from him when all he was trying to do was get back to his family. “You son of a bitch!”

The officer stands there, horrorstruck, and then turns toward his men. He gives them a salute and then raises the gun to his temple. 

Alex runs back to that alcove he was near before, where he saw a little girl crying. With any luck, she’ll still be there and he can use her to get himself aboard a boat. Another shot is fired just as he gets to her. He yanks her out, cradling her in his arms, and hurries back to the boat where another officer is loading people. 

“I have a child!” he shouts, forcing his way through the crowd. “I have a child here!”

The crew is rushing to get more women on board and the pursuer takes a look at Alex with the little girl. 

“Please,” he says, in the soft, innocent voice he’s mastered use of, “I’m all she has in the world.”

He gets a curt nod and is nearly shoved into the boat, holding the little girl and pretending to hush and comfort her. 

Farther down the deck, near the First Class Entrance, the band has just finished a waltz. Violinist Wallace Hartly looks around at all the madness. The people racing up and down the deck. People throwing things overboard. People crying and screaming. 

“Right,” he says, nodding to the orchestra members. “That’s it then.”

They nod back, all agreeing, and wish each other luck as they begin to disperse. But Wallace stays. He puts his violin to his chin and bows the first few notes of _Nearer My God to Thee_. The other band members, one by one, turn, hearing the lonely melody. Without a word they walk back and take their places. They join in with Wallace, filling out the sound so that it reaches all over the ship on this still yet dreadful night.

A seaman pulls off his lifebelt and catches up to Captain Smith as he walks to the bridge. He offers it, but the captain seems to stare through him. Without a word he turns and goes onto the bridge. He enters the enclosed wheelhouse and closes the door. He is alone, surrounded by the gleaming brass instruments and clear water rising behind the windows. Inside, he’s collapsed.

Below deck, in the First Class Smoking Room, Howard Stark stands like a statue. He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. Then he opens the face of the mantle clock and adjusts it to the correct time: 2:12 a.m. Everything must be correct.

In Alex’s luxury suites, water swirls in from the private promenade deck. Bucky’s paintings are submerged. The Picasso transforms under the water's surface. Degas' colors run. Monet's water lilies come to life.

Lying side by side, fully clothed, on a bed in a First Class Cabin, Odin and Frigga stare at the ceiling, holding hands like young lovers. Water pours into the room through a doorway. It swirls around the bed, two feet deep and rising fast.

Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the young Irish mother is tucking her two young children into bed. She pulls up the covers, making sure they are all warm and cozy. She lies down with them on the bed, speaking soothingly and holding them as she tells them their last bedtime story.

Up on the bridge, a wave travels up the boat deck as the bridge house sinks into the water.

On the port side, Collapsible B is picked up by water. Working frantically, the men try to detach it from the falls so the ship won't drag it under. The boat, still upside down, is swept off the ship, and men start diving in, swimming to stay with it.

Back at starboard, Sam removes the lifebelt from Clint’s body and struggles to put it on as the water rises around him. The boat is quickly sinking into the ocean and people are screaming and racing to get off or to get back or just get themselves anywhere but here. Someone is frantically yelling for the lines to be cut and Sam pulls out his pocket knife and he saws furiously at the ropes as the water swirls around his legs. 

Collapsible A is hit by a wave as the bow plunges suddenly. It partially swamps the boat, washing it along the deck. Over a hundred passengers are thrown into the freezing water and the area around the boat becomes a frenzy of splashing, screaming people. 

As men are trying to climb into the collapsible, Alex, having already forgotten about the child he used to get himself here, grabs an oar and pushes them back into the water.

“Get back!” he yells. “You’ll swamp us!”

Sam, swimming for his life, gets swirled under a davit. The ropes and pulleys tangle around him as the davit goes under the water, and he is dragged down. Underwater he struggles to free himself and then kicks back to the surface. He surfaces, gasping for air in the freezing water.

The stay cables along the top of the funnel snap, and they lash like steel whips down into the water. Alex watches as the funnel topples from its mounts, falling like a temple pillar twenty-eight feet across it whomps into the water with a tremendous splash. People swimming underneath it disappear in an instant.

A few feet away, Sam is hurled back by a huge wave. He comes up, gasping. Still swimming. The water pouring into the open end of the funnel draws in several swimmers. The funnel sinks, disappearing, but he swims like Hell as more people are sucked down behind him. He manages to get clear. He's going to live no matter what it takes.

In the wheelhouse, Captain Smith, standing near the wheel, watches the black water climbing the windows of the enclosed wheelhouse. The window burst suddenly and a wall of water edged with shards of glass slams into him. He disappears in a vortex of foam.

And as the band plays on, Wallace Hartely sees the water rolling rapidly up the deck toward them. He holds the last note of the hymn in a sustain and then lowers his violin.

“Gentlemen,” he says, softly, “it has been a privilege playing with you tonight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this update finds everyone still well!
> 
> I have here a copy of one of the original SOS messages sent out. 


	8. April 15th, 1912

**April 15th, 1912**

**The Sinking**

When Bucky and Steve run out of the Palm Court restaurant and into the dense crowd, Steve pushes them through to the rail. There, they’re able to look at the state of the ship and it didn’t matter that Bucky already knew they were sinking, the sight of it is shocking. The bridge is completely under water and there’s nothing but absolute pandemonium across the deck. People are running. Screaming. They climb over each other like rats in a last-ditch effort to get away from the rising water. 

“C’mere,” Steve says, pulling Bucky closer and hurrying to help him buckle the lifejacket that Mr. Stark gave him. “We have to keep moving. We need to stay on the ship as _long_ as possible.” 

They run. There are so many people bunched around him Bucky can barely breathe. His heart’s never pounded so hard before. Steve has such a tight grip on Bucky’s hand that it might actually hurt if they weren’t running for their lives. There’s so much noise. It comes from everywhere. The water gushing up the deck. People screaming in all the chaos. Those on the lifeboats demanding to row and row faster to get away from the ship. 

Bucky clings to Steve as people shove by them. Some faces he recognizes in a blur of panicked haze. First Class men who have thrown manners to the wind and scurry right along with Second and Third Class. There’re maids and other servants, and Bucky can only hope that Darcy has made her way onto one of the boats. 

Several times, someone shoves into Bucky so rough and hard he nearly topples over. If he does fall, he’ll likely be trampled. Steve’s hold on him keeps him upright, even as they clamber over the A-Deck rail. 

Steve lowers him toward the deck below, holding on with only one hand. Bucky dangles for just a moment, then falls, and looks up to watch Steve jump down behind him. They join a crush of people literally clawing and scrambling over each other to get down the narrow stairs to the well deck. They need to head in that direction or else they’ll be trapped here at B-deck. 

“Come on,” Steve instructs. “This way.” 

Since the stairs are impossible, Bucky follows Steve to the B-Deck railing, where he once again helps him over, lowering him down again. In his rush to get down so that Steve can follow, Bucky loses his balance. Next to him, a man in a baker’s uniform hauls him back to his feet. Bucky can smell the liquor on his breath.

“Steve…” Bucky breathes when he drops down. For one second, their frosty white breaths mix together. “Steve, where–”

“We’re gonna be okay, Bucky,” Steve says, lacing their fingers again. “We just have to keep moving.”

They push through the crowd across the well deck. Near them, at the rail, some people are jumping into the water. Bucky can hear that horrible splash and agonizing cry whenever they hit. The ship groans and shudders around them. Cables along the top of the funnel snap and whip away from the ship, likely killing people who might get hit. The pillar creaks for a moment before it topples into the water. 

Glass shatters and seawater thunders down over the Grand Staircase, blasting through the First Class opulence as though an Armageddon of elegance. The flooding is horrific. Walls and doors are splintered like kindling. Water roars with freight engine force through corridors, pulling the ship farther under and starting to lift the stern out of the ocean. The lights begin to fade in and out. 

Bucky feels Steve tugging at his arm as they struggle to climb up the Well Deck stairs while the ship tilts. Someone puts a hand squarely on Bucky’s ass and shoves him onto the deck. He hears a shout of apology behind him and doesn’t really give a flying fuck about it right now.

Metal groans. Cables snap. There’s more wild and helpless screaming. 

Hundreds of people are already on the poop deck, and more are pouring up every second. Bucky and Steve cling together as they fight to get across the slanting deck. The more the bow sinks into the water, the higher the stern gets, and as it goes, people begin flinging themselves overboard.

They jump from the well deck or the poop deck or even from gangway doors. Some hit debris in the water already. They scream. Some are surely hurt or even killed. Bucky’s not sure which is better. Prolonging the inevitable in some misguided attempt to cling to hope or just ending it now. Some might find the latter merciful. It doesn’t matter now. He’s with Steve and he’ll stay with him for as long as possible. 

Finally reaching the poop deck, they strain aft as the angle increases. Hundreds of passengers, clenching any fixed object on the deck so that they don’t topple toward stern, huddle on their knees around Father Byles, who has his voice raised in prayer. 

“Hail Mary, Mother of God,” he says, arm out to his parishioners. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” He begins the prayer again. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

They pray along with him. Or sob. Or just stare at nothing, their minds blank with the same dread that locks Bucky’s knees for a moment. So many people are desperate to be near him, their faith unbreakable even in this time of horror. 

Steve tugs on him again, quickly looking over his shoulder when Bucky doesn’t move along with him. 

“Come on, Bucky,” he soothes. Even now. Even here as he keeps them both from falling. “God’s not gonna do all the work for us.”

Bucky, although attending church every Sunday as a proper gentleman, has never really been a praying sort of person. He’s fairly sure God can hear everything right now. 

Still, Bucky nods and forces himself to move again, going with Steve as he pulls himself from handhold to handhold, bringing Bucky across the deck with him. They push onward and through the praying people. A man loses his grip and slides toward them. Steve lunges back and grabs hold of him, helping him back to his feet. The man has tears running down his cheeks and he babbles some sort of gratitude through his hysterics and fights his way back to a woman who throws her arms around his neck.

The stern must be at least twenty feet in the air by now and everyone is screaming there’s just so much _screaming_. People beg for help as they desperately hold onto something to keep from sliding. The stern continues to rise. The metal groans and creaks all around them. The lights flicker more.

“Come on!” Steve pulls Bucky forward, not letting him slip away. “Come on, we’re almost there!”

When they finally make it to the stern rail, right between the base of the flagpole, they grip the railing, jammed in between other people. Bucky gasps and grunts with the force of which they throw themselves at the spot. Right at the very spot where Steve pulled him back onto the ship just two nights and still a lifetime ago. Steve boxes Bucky in there.

The lights flicker again, threatening to go out. Bucky grips Steve as the stern rises into a night sky ablaze with stars.

Above the wailing and sobbing, Father Byles' voice carries, cracking with emotion.

“…and I saw new heavens and a new earth. The former heavens and the former earth had passed away and the sea was no longer…” ”

Arms reach for Bucky, hands trying to grab onto him as though he’ll be able to secure them and keep them safe. He gasps and jerks away from them, Steve taking an even tighter grip around his waist. 

Bucky stares at those around, looking into the faces of the doomed. 

Next to them, a woman clings her child to her breast. Tears slip down her face as she murmurs to her son, who’s screaming in terror, that it’ll be over soon. It’ll be fast. 

“It’ll be over soon, darlin’,” she promises. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“…He shall dwell with them and they shall be his people and He shall be their God who is always with them…”

Bucky swings his gaze to the right and spots the Romanov family clinging together stoically. Natalia happens to glance at him. Their gazes lock, briefly, and her eyes are infinitely sad. She looks away again and holds onto her mother.

Choking on his next breath, the sudden burn of tears makes bury his face in Steve’s chest. Bucky hasn’t the heart to tell him that his friend is mere feet from them, waiting to die. He trembles against him and looks up at him.

“Steve,” he says, getting his attention straight away. “This is where we first met.” 

There’s something horribly poetic about this. Dying in the same spot they met. As though they’ve gone full circle and lived all they could with each other. Time has caught up and will bring them to wherever they’re meant to be next. Hopefully, together. 

Steve’s lip quivers as though thinking the same thing, or at least something along those lines, and pulls him in tighter, planting a firm kiss to his forehead and hugging him right up against his body. 

“…And God shall wipe every tear from their eyes. And there shall be no more death or mourning, crying out or pain, for the former world has passed away.”

As the ship tilts further, everything not bolted down shifts both inside and on the deck. Cupboards burst open in the pantry, showering the floor with tons of china. A piano slides across the floor, crashing into a wall. Furniture tumbles. Beds slide. 

On the promenade deck, passengers lose their grip and slide down the wooden deck as though it was coated in ice, hundreds of feet before they hit the water. They slip as they struggle along the railing. Some attempt to pull passengers back up only to lose their grip at the last second. 

Bucky hangs on as best he can, clinging to the railing as the stern continues upward toward the sky, higher and higher. They must be at least a hundred feet out of the water now and panicking people leap from the poop deck rail. They fall screaming and hit the water like spent bullets. A man who falls from the deck hits the bronze hub of the starboard propeller with a sickening smack. 

The lights flicker and then go out all over the ship. Titanic becomes a vast black silhouette against the stars and they’ve been swallowed in total darkness. Amid the shrieks and shattering and rumbling are cries and more pleas for help. Help that will never come. 

No matter how dark it is, Bucky slams his eyes closed. He can avert his eyes, but he can't block out the sounds of dying people or the loud cracking report that flies up the ship. 

Down by the boat deck, a yawning chasm opens with a thunder of breaking steel. The ship’s structure cracks and tears, ripping apart right in front of passengers watching in horror. They gape down into a widening maw, able to see straight down into the bowels of the ship amid a booming concussion of warring sounds. People falling into the widening chasm look like dolls being flung by some great giant. 

Fires, explosions, and sparks light the rift as the hull splits right down through nine decks to the keel. The sea pours into the gaping wound, sucking people down with it. 

This may not be Hell, but Bucky can’t imagine Hell being much worse. 

There’s a deafening, thundering crack as the front half of the ship splits almost completely from the back end. 

Ripped free from the bow, the stern plummets back down into the water. Bucky’s stomach flies to his chest and he can’t breathe as the air whips around him. Those left on the deck cry out in horror and confusion. The massive stern section falls back almost level, thundering down into the sea and pushing out a mighty wave of displaced water.

Bucky and Steve struggle to keep their hold on the railing as the ship seems to right itself. When the stern hits the water, Bucky’s chin smacks against the rail and he needs to spit blood from his mouth as pain blackens his vision for a moment. 

For a few seconds, Bucky wonders if they’ve been saved after all. Perhaps this ship truly _is_ unsinkable. 

That hope is short-lived. 

Suddenly feeling the rush of ascent as the fantail rises again, even quicker this time than before, Bucky lets out a blood-curdling scream. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Everyone is clinging to benches, railings, ventilators…anything to keep from sliding as the stern lifts. 

The stern goes up and up, higher and higher, faster and faster. People start to fall, sliding and tumbling. They skid down the deck, screaming and flailing to grab onto something. They wrench other people loose and pull them down as well. There is a pile-up of bodies at the forward rail. 

“We have to move!” Steve shouts, and starts climbing over the railing, ironically getting on the side where Bucky nearly fell to his death to try to save them now. “C’mon!”

He reaches over the rail for Bucky’s hand and Bucky’s too terrified to let go of the tight grip he’s got on the railing. He’s too high. He’s too high, he can’t be this high, he just can’t. It’s making his head spin and he wants to vomit. He can’t let go. 

“Bucky! Bucky, listen to me!”

“I can’t…” Bucky hugs himself tighter to the rail. “Steve…” 

But Steve takes his hand and pries it open, cupping them both together. “I’ve got you! I won’t let go! Pull yourself over!”

Steve isn’t taking no for an answer and he tugs Bucky over on that side with him. Bucky makes it over just as the railing becomes completely horizontal and the deck vertical. Steve hangs onto him fiercely.

The stern is straight up in the air, a rumbling black monolith standing against the stars. It hangs there like that for a long grace note, its buoyancy stable. 

Bucky lies on the railing, looking down as if atop a New York building to the boiling sea at the base of the stern section. His mind is a whirlwind of panic. Bucky doesn’t know what he should feel. 

All he knows in this moment is horror. Sheer, inexplicable horror.

“What’s happening, Steve?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, breathless and shaky. “I don’t know.” 

People near them, who didn't climb over, hang from the railing, their legs dangling over the long drop. They fall one by one, plummeting down the vertical face of the poop deck. Some of them bounce horribly off deck benches and ventilators. He catches a glimpse of red hair just as Natalia, who keeps his eye for just a second, slips and disappears with a scream. 

Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth to keep the sob from echoing along with the rest of them. Bodies tumble down the upright ship. They knock into other people, bringing them all down together. They fall off the sides, smacking into things along the way down. 

Everything is still and silent except for the screams and falling bodies. The cries for help. The desperation that this night is made of. People begging for someone, _anyone_ , to come to their rescue when everyone is in just as much peril.

Bucky lies side by side with Steve on what used to be the vertical face of the hull, gripping the railing. Just beneath their feet are the gold letters that spell out _Titanic_ emblazoned across the stern. Bucky stares down, terrified, at the black ocean waiting below to claim them. To their left, crouching on the hull next to them, also holding the railing, is that baker who helped him up earlier. It’s a surreal and unimaginable moment. 

It starts with a rumble and a thunderous noise of gurgling water. Then a great and horrible shake. 

And what remains of the Titanic begins to plunge into the dark, cold Atlantic Ocean. 

“This is it!” 

“Oh god,” Bucky cries. “Oh god…”

“Listen to me,” Steve says, urgent and fast. “The ship is going to suck us down. Take a deep breath when I say.” Bucky can’t take his eyes off the water gobbling up the ship, but manages to nod along with Steve’s instructions. “Kick for the surface and _keep_ kicking. Do _not_ let go of my hand.” Maybe it’s an instinct, but they take an even tighter grip on each other when he says this. “We’re gonna make it, Bucky. Trust me.”

Bucky stares at the water coming up at them and grips his hand harder. 

“I trust you!”

Below them, the poop deck is disappearing. The plunge gathers speed. The boiling surface engulfs the docking bridge and then rushes up almost all of what’s remaining. 

“Ready?” Steve shouts. “Ready?” The churning sea sprays their faces. “Now!”

Bucky sucks in such a deep breath it aches in his lungs just as the stern is sucked into the ocean, pulling him and Steve down with it where they vanish under the water.

Where the ship stood, now there is nothing. Only the black ocean.

Bodies are whirled and spun, some limp as dolls, others struggling spasmodically, as the vortex sucks them down and tumbles them.

There’s nothing but total darkness all around him. Water twists Bucky’s body in unnatural and painful ways. He can’t see. Can’t hear. He can’t even think about anything. He feels the horrendous pull at him, tugging him and Steve in different directions, and as hard as he tries to hold onto his hand, they’re ripped apart.

Bucky feels around blindly for Steve, pushing nothing but ocean around as he kicks and kicks and kicks until he bursts through the surface of the water. He coughs some out and searches frantically among the thousands of people who flail around him. 

He barely has time to gasp for air before people are clawing at him. People driven insane by the freezing water, a cold so intense it is indistinguishable from death by fire.

“Steve!” Bucky shouts. “Steve!”

His cries are drowned out by the deafening cries of others. At the surface is a roiling chaos of screaming, thrashing people. Over a thousand people are now floating where the ship went down. Some are stunned, gasping for breath. Others are crying, praying, moaning, shouting…screaming.

They try to grab onto anything that floats, even each other, shoving people back down into the ocean in a desperate attempt to stay above the water. 

They’re everywhere. Everywhere Bucky looks there’re panicked people screaming in pain and in fear. They shout for help. For loved ones. They swim. They splash. The noise is almost as painful as the freeze that gnaws at Bucky’s body, frozen teeth sinking deep into bone.

He tries swimming as he looks for Steve, shouting his name over and over again. A man is suddenly on top of him, pushing Bucky under and trying to climb on top of him. Senselessly trying to get out of the water, to climb onto anything. 

Bucky tries to fight him off, shoving at him and resurfacing only a moment before being pushed back under again. 

“Steve!” he shouts when he’s up for another second. “Stev–” He’s dunked again. “Steve!”

“Bucky!”

He doesn’t know where Steve comes from, but he’s suddenly there, punching the guy holding Bucky under in the face. 

“Let go of him!” he demands. “Let go!”

He punches again and again until the man is flung away and Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s lifejacket to pull him in closer. 

“Swim, Bucky!” he shouts. “I need you to swim!”

Bucky tries, but his strokes are not as effective as his because of the lifejacket. Water keeps hitting him in the face. It goes up his nose and down his mouth and in his ears. Steve continues to tug at the neck of his lifejacket, pulling him with him as they try to get away from all the havoc.

They break out of the clot of people, searching for some kind of flotation, anything to get them out of the freezing water.

“Keep swimming, just keep moving, Bucky!” Steve encourages. “You can do it! You can!”

All about them there is a tremendous wailing. Screaming. Moaning. A chorus of tormented souls crying _help us_! and _please, someone help_! and just plain old _help_! Over and over. And beyond that…nothing. Nothing but black water stretching to the horizon. The sense of isolation and hopelessness is overwhelming.

“Look for something floating,” Steve tells him. “Some debris…wood…anything.”

“It’s s-so cold-d-d.”

Bucky doesn’t know why he says this. Steve knows it’s cold. It’s just…it’s the only thing that’s registering right now. Just the cold. The ache of it, inside and out. 

“I know. I know.” Steve tugs him closer. “Help me, here. Look around.”

His words keep Bucky focused, taking his mind off the wailing around them. Bucky scans the water, panting, barely able to draw a breath. He shivers so violently it’s making the water around him splash in little waves. But beyond a few small pieces of debris, Bucky sees something in the water. He lifts a shaky hand and tries to point but it’s shaking so hard that he can’t quite manage.

“Wh-what’s th-that?”

Steve looks, though, and sees what’s out there, and they make for it, together. It’s a piece of wooden debris, intricately carved. A door of some sort. Maybe off a wardrobe. 

“Come on,” Steve instructs. “Get on.”

Steve gives Bucky a boost. Out of breath and shaking and grunting, Bucky climbs onto it, sliding across it on his belly, but when he grabs the other end to heave himself all the way on and Steve tries to get on alongside him, the whole thing tips over and dumps them back into the water.

Bucky yells and dips almost all the way under again only his lifejacket keeps him afloat. He coughs water up and out of his throat and tries so desperately to catch his breath. Steve’s hands are at his sides immediately. 

“Come on, get on,” he tells him. “St-stay on.”

This time, Bucky manages to climb on and stay on, and he moves over enough to let Steve get on after him. Only he doesn’t try again. Steve just clings onto it and moves around it so that he’s facing Bucky, pulling as much of his upper body out of the water as possible. 

“Wh-w-what are you d-d-doing, St-teve?”

“It’s all right,” he whispers. “You’re all r-right n-n-now.”

Their breaths fog around them in thick, white swirls as they pant from exertion. Bucky’s teeth chatter violently. The yells and screams haven’t subsided at all. 

“Help us!”

“For the love of god _, please_!”

“Turn the boats around!”

Any one of them would happily trade places with Bucky right now, he knows that, but he also realizes why Steve’s stopped trying to get on the door with him. Bucky sucks in a deep breath and rolls off the door. 

“Bucky!” Steve cries, snatching him by the arm and pulling him back to the floating door. “What are you d-d-doing?!”

“N-not if-f you d-d-don’t t-too.” 

“I ca…I can’t…” His lips are already blue. His skin white as snow. “Y-y-you have to…”

“Steve! I’m not…”

“Okay.” Steve nods. “Okay. Just. L-lemme help-p you f-f-first.”

So long as Steve agrees to keep trying to get onto the door with him, Bucky can do that. He’s amazed that his brain is still able to think so clearly. Not with this freezing gnawing at his every other thought. 

They try again. 

The door still flips over. 

People are still splashing. Screaming and pleading for help. Just a few feet from them, hugging a floating chair, is an officer who keeps blowing fiercely into his whistle. 

“Turn the boats!” he yells. “Bring them back!”

Neither Bucky nor Steve yell for help as they continue with their attempts to fit themselves on their floating piece of hope. No matter how many times this godforsaken thing dumps them back into the water Bucky _will_ see them both on it. 

“B-Bucky…” Steve murmurs. “Th-this is th-th-the best-t-t we’re gonna d-do.”

Which leaves Bucky laying across the length of it with Steve’s perpendicular to him. His legs still hang in the water, but he’s managed to get from his hips up onto the door with Bucky. It’ll have to do.

“It’s…it’s gonna be…all right now,” Steve whispers just before that whistle blows across the water again. “You’re gonna be…okay.” 

“Return the boats!”

“For the love of God, help us!”

Steve keeps looking back. Back beyond all swarms of drowning people. Steve’s got both his hands over Bucky’s and he’s rubbing them almost furiously. Trying, Bucky assumes, to bring some warmth back to them. 

“Steve…”

“The boats will come back for us, Bucky.”

“Please! Somebody help us!”

“Hold on just a little longer,” Steve says. “They had to row away for the suction and now they'll be coming back. Now. They’ll c-c-come b-back.”

Bucky looks over Steve’s head. Sees the thousands of people thrashing around in the water. Hears their pained and anguished cries. 

The comfort of Steve’s words are all Bucky has to hold onto now. He nods, shivering uncontrollably. His teeth rattle. His fingertips and toes are already numb. 

There are at least twenty boats out there floating in the darkness, most of them not even half full. They just need to wait. Be patient. They’ll come. They have to come. They can’t just leave all of them to die out here.

It doesn’t take all that long for the pain to become all-consuming. The cold, the infernal freeze, burns Bucky from the inside out. He’s panting. Making strange noises as he does. Possibly because he’s so exhausted. Steve is trembling as much as he is. They’ve huddled together as best as possible given their positions.

Every now and then Bucky’s vision fades. He can’t tell if that’s from him actually closing his eyes without realizing it or if blackness actually crawls in front of his eyes. He has a feeling it’s both. 

Something inside his chest hurts. Nothing’s hurt like this before. Not even when his father died. Like there’s some big, thick blade pushed against his lungs and just scraping at them as much as they please. 

By the time Bucky realizes how much of the noise around them has died down, he can barely feel anything at all. It’s almost a blessing as much as it is a curse. 

“It’s getting quiet,” he whispers. 

The hand around Bucky’s squeezes, weakly. “Just a few…a few more minutes.” He huffs a painful breath. “It'll take them a while to get the…the boats organized…”

Bucky lies there motionless, just staring into space. He knows the truth. There won't be any boats. Behind Steve he sees that the officer with the whistle has stopped moving. He’s slumped in his lifejacket, looking almost asleep. He’s already died of exposure with that whistle still pressed between his teeth. In a way, he looks peaceful. Death might not be so bad if it looks peaceful like that.

“I d-don't know about y-you,” Steve says, “but…I in-ntend to write a st-strongly worded l-letter to the White Star Line about all th-this.”

Bucky manages a weak laugh, but it comes out much more like a gasp of fear. He can’t stop shaking and Steve is trembling violently. He's scrunching his face and squeezing his eyes. There’s ice caked in his hair and even in his eyelashes and his skin is a horrible shade of blue. 

_This is it_ , he thinks _. I have no more time with him_. 

For Bucky, there’s only one thing left to say.

“I love you, Steve.” 

Only this doesn’t seem to be okay with Steve. Not yet. He lifts his head and Bucky finds his eyes in the dark. Steve shakes his head, his jaw tightening. He reaches for Bucky’s hand and holds it in both of his.

“Don’t…don’t you d-do that,” he says, firmly. “D-don’t you s-s-say your good-d-b-byes. Not yet. Do you understand me?” 

“I’m so cold.”

Tears spill over Bucky’s cheeks, freezing to his skin almost immediately. 

Steve still shakes his head. “You’re…you’re going to get-t-t out of this…” He gulps in more air, his chest rattling as he does. “You’re…you’re going to g-go on-n and you’re…you’re g-g-going to have bab-b-bies. Watch them gr-grow. You’re going to die an…an old man. Warm…warm in his…his bed. Not here. _Not_ this night.” Steve’s voice cracks and Bucky needs to hold in a sob. “D-d-o…do you underst-stand me?” 

Shaking too hard to get out an answer right away, Bucky struggles to say something, anything, to this man dying with him who’s still trying to sooth and comfort him.

“I can’t…” It hurts to speak. “I can’t f-f-feel my body.”

“Bucky, l-listen to me. Listen.” Steve is having trouble catching his breath to keep speaking. “W-winning that…ticket w-was the best thing th-that ever hap-happened to m-me.” His voice drops to a soothing whisper. “It brought me to you. And I’m…I’m th-thankful.” His breaths are rough and jagged and sound so painful, and Bucky holds back more tears. The iron cuffs still around Steve’s wrists scrape against the wood when he moves Bucky’s hand to his heart. “You…you m-must d-do me this hon-honor. Prom-promise me you’ll survive…th-that you will n-n-never give up…no matter wh-what happens…no matter h-how hopeless…promise me now, and never let go of that promise.”

Though he’s having some difficulty talking, Steve’s eyes remain strong and steadfast. Unwavering. Promising this to him means the world. Only Bucky has one condition.

“Y-you pr-promise f-f-first.” 

His face falls slightly. Tears fill his eyes. He coughs on a few breaths and then shakes his head. 

“Bucky…p-please…”

“Steve. Promise me.”

Head falling, Steve chokes on a sob and nods. “Ok-okay. I prom…I promise, Bucky.”

“I promise, Steve. 

“N-n-never let g-g-o of th-that promise.”

“I’ll never let go,” he whispers. “I promise, Steve.”

They’re both crying. Making promises to each other they want so badly to keep. Steve brings Bucky’s hand up to his lips. Kisses. Bucky kisses in turn when he lowers them again. And then they lie with their hands gripped and their heads together. 

It is quiet now. 

Except for the soft lapping of water.

***

The stars reflect on the surface of the still water as though they’ve all fallen into the ocean so that everyone floating in the Atlantic might as well be floating among the cosmos as well. It’s unearthly quiet. A soft hush that falls over this little piece of the world. Where tragic death lingers over a peaceful night.

An everlasting sleep hovers around Bucky. He and Steve are absolutely still as they too float upon an ocean of stars. Their hands are still locked together. Steve hasn’t said anything in a while. Or maybe he has and Bucky can no longer hear him. He can’t feel anything anymore. There’s nothing. He’s stopped shivering. His teeth no longer clatter. Everything moves so slow as he stares upward at the canopy of stars wheeling above him.

Still, he knows peace in this moment. He knows he is dying as he floats somewhere in the void between life and death. The faces of the dead aren’t far from him. He can’t look any different from them. Pale. Eyes glassy. Ice clinging to his hair and freezing it to the door. His lips barely move as he sings lines of their song. His and Steve’s. Theirs.

“Come Josephine…” A line of thin frost rising out of his mouth with his weak breath. “In my flying…machine…” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Doesn’t know why he’s singing. He just…does. “Going up…she goes…up…she goes…” 

The stars. 

They’ve never looked so brilliant before. A beautiful world where all this hasn’t happened. Bright and shining from horizon to horizon. 

A shooting star.

It flares across the sky, leaving a line of light sparkling behind it as he shoots along the heavens.

Bucky should make a wish. 

One more time.

He lies there, breaths so shallow he’s almost motionless, just staring. Just waiting for the death that’s claimed everyone else tonight. It must be coming for him. The light that moves over him is soft. Calling. 

Bucky’s eyes track down from the stars to the water. His head manages to move as well. Slow. Barely even at all. But it does. 

There’s something…something there. Bucky’s mind isn’t making much sense of anything. His eyes close. They ease back open when he hears something over the deafening silence. The slow and distorted voices of men calling out. Bucky sees something. The silhouette of a boat crossing the stars. Shadows of men in it. Searching. Calling.

Bucky tries to blink away the hallucination. When he opens his eyes again, it’s still there. It takes another moment for Bucky to realize they’re really there. A boat carefully maneuvering through the corpses that bob between its oars. He sees men in it, rowing so slowly the oars lift out of the syrupy water, leaving weightless pearls floating in the air. 

The lookout flashes his light toward him. The illumination flares across the water and doesn’t quite reach Bucky. The men look away. The boat starts to move past him and Steve. 

They haven’t seen them. They don’t know that they’re still alive. If they leave, Bucky knows he and Steve will die here. 

He turns his head to Steve, the ice freezing his hair to the wood cracking and breaking as he does. 

“Steve?” he whispers, unable to get his voice higher than that. “Steve.” Bucky smiles slightly. They’ve come to rescue them. Just like Steve promised. “Steve, there’s a boat.” Bucky lifts his weak and trembling arm to touch Steve’s chin and sees that his face is rimmed with frost. “Steve?” Bucky shakes his shoulder. Steve doesn’t respond. “There’s a boat, Steve.” He keeps shaking him by the shoulder, trying to wake him. “Steve.” He falters when Steve still doesn’t respond. “Steve, wake up. There’s a boat.” His voice splinters into too many emotions. “Steve, there’s a boat. You have to wake up now. Steve, please.” Bucky shakes his head. “You promised me. This isn’t the end of the line, Steve, it _isn’t_ , _please_ , wake up.” 

The cuffs around Steve’s wrists rattle against the wood as Bucky goes on trying to wake him. Steve looks so peaceful. As though he’s let go of every worry in the world. 

“Steve…” Bucky cries as the last tears he’ll ever shead slip down his cheeks.

Bucky lowers his head again, all hope, will, and spirit leaving him. He looks at the boat rowing farther away, the voice from it growing fainter. Bucky watches them leave. Watches as they become just another dot in the horizon.

He closes his eyes. He’s so weak and tired and he doesn’t want to hurt anymore. There just seems to be no reason to even try anymore. 

No.

No, he won’t let a thing like death keep them apart. Come hell or high water, Bucky will see that they keep their promises to one another.

His eyes snap open as he suddenly raises his head, cracking the ice as he rips his hair off the wood. 

“Come back!” he calls out, but his voice is so strained and weak they can’t hear him. The boat is so far away now, the flashlight just a star in the darkness. Bucky struggles to draw in a breath and tries again. “Come back!” His voice squeaks but gets no higher. “Come back!”

Bucky attempts to move so that he can try calling attention to himself but finds that he can’t. His hand, he realizes, is actually frozen to Steve’s. He breathes on them, trying to melt the ice, and pulls them apart with a painful grunt. Before doing anything, Bucky kisses Steve’s knuckles and gently places his hand back down. 

“I won’t let you go,” he whispers. “I promise.”

Careful not to disturb Steve’s body, Bucky rolls off the door and plunges back into the icy water. He swims, fatigued and exhausted, to the officer’s body and grabs the whistle, tugging it from his dead lips. He fumbles with it a little, trying to get it to his mouth. Once it’s there, Bucky blows the whistle with all the strength that remains in his body. The sound of it flies across the still water. 

The shadowy figure holding the flashlight suddenly bolts upright. He whips around, swinging the illumination in Bucky’s direction. 

“Turn about!” he screams, and Bucky goes on blowing that whistle as they make their way back to him. 

Boat number fourteen. Out of the twenty boats floating nearby, only one’s come back. Just one. Number fourteen. A number Bucky will never forget. 

He’s still blowing into the whistle when the officer on the boat hauls him into it and takes it from him. Bucky’s immediately covered in blankets and his body is just about to give way to unconsciousness but it can’t. Not yet. There’s still something to be done before he finally rests.

“Steve…” Bucky manages to squeak out the name. They don’t hear him. Or don’t understand him. “The man on the wood…” 

Bucky tries to sit up only for three sets of hands to land on him, keeping him down. But he shakes his head and struggles uselessly against them. 

“No…” He lifts his arm, his hand trembling, and points. “Steve…”

The officer looks out onto the water, presumably looking for another survivor. The one Bucky’s trying to tell him about. 

“That man,” he says, “is still alive?”

Yes. Yes, Steve is still alive. He has to be. He wouldn’t just leave Bucky like this. Not after he promised. 

Bucky weakly nods as the other men in the boat begin to row closer to Steve. There’s some hesitation when they get there. The officer goes to help Steve onto the boat only to stop when he touches him. 

“Please,” Bucky whimpers. “Please, help him.” 

Whether the next thing that happens is out of sympathy or genuine belief that they’ve found another survivor, Bucky isn’t sure, but they bring Steve’s body aboard with them. The second they lower him next to Bucky, they’re both covered with more blankets, and Bucky curls into Steve’s side just as his body finally gives out. 

***

The predawn light has just begun to break through the sky when Bucky opens his eyes next. Beneath him, Steve hasn’t stirred. Bucky’s vision is too blurry to see clearly, but his face still looks moon-white. Bucky closes his eyes and rests his head back against Steve’s chest. 

He might sleep again, he might not. Time seems to wash over Bucky in waves. Sometimes he’s aware of what’s around him. Others, he’s only aware that he still exists in some physical plain of life. It’s in those moments, Bucky feels as though he’s floating above himself, able to look down and contemplate all that’s happened. 

Bucky still can’t feel his body. Not so much from the cold. Or maybe all from the cold. Numbness has crawled through him and made a new home for itself. 

Every now and then, the men in the boat with Bucky try to check on him. If he’s sleeping, they might gently shake him awake. Making sure he’s still alive, he thinks. They ask if they can get him anything. This includes one of them, Officer Lowe, helping him to sit up for a moment so that he can take a few sips of liquor from a flask that he’s gotten from another passenger. 

“Here you are, sir,” he says, holding the flask up to Bucky’s lips for him. “That should help with the cold.” 

It does burn a little as it goes down his throat and spreads to his belly. It also warms him as promised, but Bucky takes note that no one tries to wake Steve to offer him some as well. 

After that, there’s really nothing left for Bucky and the other survivors to do but to wait. 

Wait to die. 

Wait to live.

Wait for an absolution that would never come. 

Bucky is in something of a half-conscious state when the man next to him suddenly hops up and starts shouting and pointing. Everything sounds like he’s holding his head underwater so he’s not precisely sure what he’s going on about, but whatever it is gets the other men on the boat excited. He can just make out the yells coming from the other boats they float among. 

Still swaddled in several blankets, only a bit of his face remains uncovered. A green light flashes back and forth. Bucky’s gaze drifts upward to see that Officer Lowe has a flare in his hand and he’s waving it from side to side. For a moment, amongst the shouts and cheers, green is all that Bucky can register.

Green. Green. Green. 

Bucky doesn’t react. He floats above all comprehensible emotion. It’s like he’s left his body and drifts above himself. Watching. Waiting. 

Golden light washes across the white boats, which sit in a calm sea reflecting the rosy sky. All around them, like a flotilla of sailing ships, are icebergs. Another liner sits nearby, as boats row toward her. When the ship’s hull looms over them, Bucky catches the letters written on the bow. 

_Carpathia_.

Their savior. 

The gangway doors ease open and the crewmen roll down rope ladders. Bucky, rocked by gentle waves in the sea, watches as the first of Titanic’s surviving passengers are helped aboard the ship. 

Bucky supposes he should feel relieved. Perhaps the emotion is there. Buried under everything else. All the numbness. Beneath that is a layer of anguish. Grief. Guilt. They’re just biding their time. 

Someone touches Bucky’s shoulder. Eyes opening, his vision crosses and then rights itself when he focuses on Officer Lowe. Their boat, boat fourteen, is right next to the ship now. Another man they pulled from the water is already climbing up the rope ladder. That must mean they want to help Bucky up next. 

He doesn’t move. All he wants to do is sleep. Like Steve. Who still looks so peaceful. Bucky rests his head down again.

“Come on, Mr. Barnes,” Officer Lowe says, softly. “We’ll make sure he gets aboard as well. You have my word.” 

His word doesn’t mean all that much. Even if they do manage to bring Steve’s body onto the ship, that’s all they’ll be doing. Bucky knows the truth, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Steve hasn’t stirred. Bucky can’t hear his heartbeat. He can’t feel him breathing. 

Still, he allows them to peel him away from Steve and help him grab hold of the ladder. Head bobbing and limbs shaking with fatigue, Bucky starts the long climb up to the welcoming arms of the Carpathia. Outside of time. Outside of himself. Outside of reality. 

When he reaches the top of the ladder, two sets of hands reach down and take a tight, secure grip under his arms and then heave him onto the ship. Unable to remain upright, Bucky topples into the arms of one of the Carpathia’s maids. She holds him close, wrapping him in a soft, affectionate embrace of a stranger who murmurs kind things to him. 

There are still more people that need to climb aboard so Bucky manages to stand on his own. He doesn’t quite need to, though. Behind him, Officer Lowe has placed both hands over Bucky’s shoulder to assist him. Bucky very much needs the help as he staggers forward. He’s draped with more blankets. A young steward offers him a hot cup of tea. Bucky’s aware of it but cannot bring himself to accept it. Instead, Officer Lowe takes it and eases it into Bucky’s hand.

The cup is warm between his palms. As he walks, Officer Lowe coaxes it up to his lips. Bucky takes a sip. Because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Stewards lead them to the ship’s dining rooms. Officer Lowe kindly brings Bucky to a seat and helps him sit. He says something to him. Something about being okay now. Bucky should thank him. His mouth doesn’t seem to work anymore. 

People in here are hugging and crying. Some of the other survivors have gone up to the decks to search for loved ones. Bucky simply sits there. 

Everything hurts. Outside as well as inside. His head pounds. His lungs burn. His limbs ache. It’s difficult to breathe. To move. 

He must sit there for a long while since by the time someone tries to take the untouched tea from him, it’s room temperature. Bucky lets go of the cup and then realizes that someone is standing in front of him, gently removing the blankets that are around his shoulders. He can’t imagine why. 

“It’s all right, dear,” she says. “I’ll put them back on. You’ll be more comfortable without the lifebelt.”

Bucky looks down to see that he does still have it secure around his body. The woman who’s helping him is gentle as she maneuvers his arms this way and that and eases the lifejacket off of him. She lets it fall to the floor by her feet and, as promised, she covers him in those blankets. One by one, making sure they’re snug around him. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Of course, love.”

She pets a soothing hand over his head and it’s only when she walks away to help another survivor that she’s not actually an employee on the Carpathia, but a passenger. There are, in fact, quite a few passengers helping alongside crewmembers. Handing out blankets. Taking down names. Giving out hot cups of tea and coffee and bowls of soup. 

Bucky recognizes some of the faces here. Mostly mothers with their children. He even spots Laura with her children. They’re all huddled together across the room. The children are crying while Laura tries to comfort them. He can only assume that Clint never made it to a boat. 

So many lives and families ripped apart in just a few hours. 

Bucky’s still looking at what’s left of the Barton family when someone sits next to him. It still hurts to move, but he manages to turn his head to the side. His gaze eases to the face of the man sitting next to him. He doesn’t look at Bucky. He just stares straight ahead. Heartbroken. Grief-stricken. Just like Bucky. 

“Sam…” Bucky breathes when it finally registers why someone has chosen this particular spot to sit. Sam’s survived. So many of his friends did not. “I’m sorry.” 

Lip trembling, Sam doesn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he reaches over and takes Bucky by the hand. Their fingers lace. Bucky rests his head on Sam’s shoulder; Sam rests his head atop Bucky’s. 

It’s then that Bucky’s hit with a rush of tears. Not hysterics, but a steady stream. Sam cries as well. Bucky can feel his staggered breaths and hear his sniffles. 

They sit together in their sorrow, clinging to the only comfort they can find in each other. 

“You can come live with me and my family,” Sam says several minutes later. “If you don’t want to go home with yours. My mother will be happy to take you in.” 

“Thank you, Sam,” Bucky murmurs. “I just might. Until I get on my feet.” 

“Anything for my best friend’s guy.” 

Sam’s voice cracks when he says the word friend. The weeping hasn’t stopped. Neither of them move. Not even out of this position. They just stay there together as time goes on and on. 

***

“Bucky?”

Sam says his name gently, waking him from a deep slumber. Head still resting on Sam’s shoulder, it takes Bucky a moment to place where he is and what he’s doing there. In that instant between asleep and awake, he forgets. And he’s at peace. 

It hits him all over again and he gasps as though he’s been stabbed right through the chest. The blade glints in the afternoon light and Bucky can’t breathe. 

“Hey, hey.” Sam’s hands are on his shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Right. That’s right. He’s safe. They’re safe. Him and Sam. Not Steve. Steve is gone and Bucky’s hit with a rush of every heartache he’s ever experienced. 

“I’m sorry.” Bucky rubs at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam.” 

“It’s all right. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Bucky groans a little and scrubs his hands over his face. There’s a bit of stubble already growing on his face. He’d never been permitted to allow it to grow. Clean and fresh. Always. He sniffs and clears his throat.

“How, uh…how long was I asleep for?”

“Couple hours.”

“Hours?” Bucky glances around the room. There’re less people here now, but those that remain are being tended to by the crew and passengers of the Carpathia. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Sam cracks a soft, albeit sad, grin. “Do you do that a lot?”

“Sleep?”

“Apologize for yourself,” he clarifies. “Even when you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

That’s because he’s gotten so used to it. To being told he was wrong. His actions. His opinions. His thoughts. Wants, hopes, dreams. He’s always been wrong. He’s been apologizing for them for so long now that it just feels natural.

It never occurred to him that there might come a time where he’d be free to express himself again. That people wouldn’t think him a child for daring to dream for things outside riches and fame. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was…” 

Bucky snaps his mouth closed and doesn’t finish that. He tries to smile, even just a little self-deprecating one, because that was funny, but he simply can’t manage it. He wonders if he’ll ever smile again. 

“Yes,” he says instead. “I do. I ought to try stopping.”

Sam offers him one of those smiles again. Soft, but sad. Then his jaw tightens like he’s desperate to keep it from trembling. 

“I looked for her,” he says, voice splintering; a treasure chest cracked open to spill out only cobwebs. “There was even a woman up on the deck with red hair and I ran up to her thinking it was…” Natalia. A mere glimmer of hope that she’d survived. “But it wasn’t.”

Not sure if it’s better to tell Sam that he saw her during those very last moments or not, Bucky puts an arm around his waist to hug him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

“Me too, kid.” Sam nods. “Me too.” 

Sam then offers to get them something warm to drink and Bucky wonders if he’s offering to be kind or if he just falls into a nurturing role when he’s feeling helpless. Perhaps it’s a little bit of both. Bucky politely declines, though, and instead goes up to the deck. 

The deck is crammed with huddled people and even the recovered lifeboats of Titanic. On a hatch cover sits an enormous pile of lifebelts. The people up there are still wrapped in blankets, just like Bucky, and hugging and crying. Some of the women are begging officers and stewards of the Carpathia for any information on their husbands or sons. Others search for brothers and other relatives and friends. Passengers of the Carpathia are still helping. They’re handing out fresh blankets and collecting empty glasses and giving out fresh cups of tea.

Bucky even spots Peggy Carter among them. With her is Wanda Maximoff and Thor Odinson. They look to be directing crewmen and stewards and maids of the Carpathia to be sure that these passengers are also provided with the basic necessities. There are even some men who Bucky thinks might be doctors offering some counsel. 

Afternoon sun splashes across the ship, moving life along as though last night never even happened. While time stands still for the survivors, it keeps on ticking for the rest of the world. That unearthly stillness can be seen in the eyes of widows' blank faces. The tears of the orphaned children. The cries of families desperate to find their loved ones. 

All of it leaves an empty hole in Bucky’s chest as he walks among them. These steerage passengers because even now, after everything that’s happened, they’re kept separate from other classes. At first, Bucky’s not sure what he’s doing up here, scanning the faces of other survivors. When it hits him, he needs to smother down a sob. 

Steve.

He’s searching for Steve among the survivors even when, rationally, he knows he’s not with them. Bucky’s not going to find him standing out here, roaming with the rest of these lost souls. 

Someone hands him a cup of hot tea. Bucky takes it with the best smile he can manage. He finds an empty spot and sits, sipping his drink, until something out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention. His pulse pounds loudly in his ears when he sees that Alex is slowly coming down the steps to the deck. Because, of course, he survived. Of course, he slimed his way onto a lifeboat. Of course, he’ll maintain the honor that he’s so carefully purchased for himself. 

A steward approaches him. Says, “I don’t think you’ll find any of your people down here, sir. This is all steerage.”

Just as Alex waves him off, Bucky pulls the blanket over his head like a shawl. With any luck, he’ll just look like the other women up here. From a distance anyway. 

Under the hidden safety of the blanket, Bucky turns just enough to watch as Alex checks the faces of the people up here. He even must spot someone that he mistakes for Bucky since he hurries over to him and spins them around. Upon seeing he’s got the wrong person, his shoulders fall slightly and he continues with his search.

Bucky looks straight ahead again, letting the blanket cover more of that side of his face so that Alex can’t see him. When he does this, though, someone else _does_ see him.

Just to Bucky’s right, is Winifred. 

Bucky’s never seen her look like this. Face pale. Eyes swollen. Hair and clothes disheveled. When she sees Bucky, she freezes. It looks like she might start to smile, but her eyes lift to look at something behind Bucky. Alex, presumably. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Bucky growls with a glare as cold and hard as the ice which changed their lives. “He no longer owns me. And neither do you, Mother.” 

Lower lip trembling, she sniffs and nods. She calls no attention to herself nor does she let Alex know that she’s found him. 

“I’m…” Her voice cracks, emotion splintering through her carefully maintained exterior. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.” 

As angry as he is with her, Bucky can’t help the tremble in his heart. He clenches his jaw to keep from crying, but one tear manages to slip from his eye and roll down his cheek. Since he can’t manage to answer and isn’t sure if he forgives her yet, he just nods. Winifred places a gentle hand over his head and then steps forward, quickly, almost like she’s shielding him. 

“I won’t ever let him find you,” she says under her breath and then, louder, “He’s not here.” Winifred walks away and Bucky can only assume that she’s leading away from this spot. “My son is…he’s gone.” 

In that, she’s absolutely correct. 

Her son died with the Titanic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I have no images to share this time, but I wish you all well <3


	9. April 18th, 1912

**April 18th, 1912**

Bucky’s life aboard the Carpathia is wildly different than what it’d been like on the Ship of Dreams. While this ship doesn’t measure up to the beauty and elegance that made the Titanic so grand, it’s still much cozier than a lifeboat. Not that Bucky is really able to admire it. Even if he tried to, nothing would sink in. 

These past few days have been mostly a haze, but he is aware of some things. He’s learned that the radio operator of the Carpathia has been trying to send messages to survivor’s families and refuses to let anyone share any information for money. Sam sent one to his family. Bucky wonders if his mother has tried to reach out to his sister. He finds out that Clint had been shot while waiting for a boat, but Sam doesn’t know if it’s better to tell Laura the truth or to let her think he just didn’t make it. So far, Sam’s said nothing. Bucky can’t say that he blames him. He still hasn’t said anything about Natalia, and he doubts he ever will. Everyone has their secrets. Some darker than others. 

Sam actually tells him how he managed to survive and that he did so by punching Alex, of all people, in the face. 

“Man tried to hit me on the head with an oar,” he said when he told Bucky. “I got myself to the other side of the boat and climbed in. By the time he turned around, it was right into my fist.”

“Well,” Bucky replied, “at least he didn’t get away _completely_ unscathed.”

Many decent people, though, did die. Thor, for example, is the only one of his family that made it. Wanda’s brother and husband are gone. King T’Chaka didn’t make it, along with his bodyguards and Everett Ross. Darcy, Bucky’s kind and animated maid. 

So many more. While Bucky wasn’t overly fond of the crowd he grew up with, he certainly didn’t wish such a tragic ending for them. 

And then there are the people he’s with now. Steerage. People who barely even had a chance. They’ve lost husbands and brothers and mothers and sisters. Friends. Children. 

So many children.

Bucky heard a rumor that Peggy had taken an oar herself and then urged the crewmen to turn back in order to help those in the water. The only reason, he’s told, that they didn’t was because the quartermaster in charge of the boat threatened to throw her overboard. No one seems to know for sure whether or not she had something to do with the one boat that _did_ come back, but Bucky wouldn’t put it past her. 

He does know that her efforts that have ensured all the needs for the Third Class survivors have been met. The one time she spotted Bucky when she happened to be there helping, she smiled kindly at him and assured him that he could always count her as a friend. 

Bucky actually spends most of his time sleeping. The doctor who comes around at least once a day assures him that this is perfectly normal. That his body needs to rest just like those who have been brought to his cabin who were too weak or ill to be with everyone else.

So he sleeps where there’s room and usually on the floor. Sometimes, he’s lucky enough to be given extra blankets to put under him. His sleep isn’t well patterned. Bucky’ll fall asleep at any time of the day or night. When he wakes, it feels as though he hasn’t rested at all. 

But there’s this one second, one _instant_ between asleep and awake where everything is peaceful. Where Bucky’s in a world in which there’s been no disaster. Steve is still with him. They’re happy. Together. 

Then that moment ends.

He eats when food is available. Gone are the days of fine dining and his pick of meats and cheeses and sweets. But there’s hot soup and bread, and his belly is never empty, and that’ll do just fine. 

When Bucky isn’t sleeping, he tries to make himself useful. He offers to watch children while their mothers try to get some rest. Since he’s never actually made himself or anyone else tea–or anything else for that matter–he collects empty dishes and cups and brings them to the staff. He’s hugged so many people. People who are sitting by themselves. People who are crying. People who just stare at nothing. 

And Sam.

So often, Bucky’s caught Sam just sitting alone, completely still, with a blank expression on his face. It looks as though he’s desperately trying to figure out why this has happened. Why so many people are dead while he survived–a guilt Bucky’s felt on numerous occasions. How any of this is fair. 

Sometimes, they just sit together, sharing the silence because no words can fix this or pick up the broken pieces. Sometimes, Bucky holds Sam while he cries. Sometimes, Sam holds Bucky. 

Sam isn’t always silent. When he’s not, he tells Bucky stories about him and Steve. How they met. How they traveled together after knowing each other for a single night. For a friendship that only started a year ago, they were remarkably close. They loved each other. Sam has such wonderful memories of the two of them together. A whole year’s worth. 

Bucky has only three days worth of memories, but he intends to cherish every single one of them for as long as he lives. 

***

It’s raining on the night Carpathia reaches New York and prepares to dock. Cold, fat drops of rain that pour out of thick clouds which block the stars. Perhaps it’s their own way of mourning right along with them. 

Bucky stands out on the deck, letting the rain soak him through to the bone. There are other people out there with him, but they’re all huddled under umbrellas or blankets. Not Bucky. He simply lets the rain wash over him in buckets as though it has the power to cleanse him. To make him whole again. 

When other people start shouting excitedly and pointing at something, Bucky, at the railing of the ship, gazes up at the Statue of Liberty. She’s there, same as always, welcoming Bucky home with her glowing torch to lead the way. 

Since most people had come up outside to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty as they approached, they hurry to get back inside where it’s warm and dry. Bucky doesn’t move. He just…looks up in wonder. So many possibilities stretch before him now. It’s exciting in a horrifying way. He’s never been on his own and while he has a bit of help in Sam, it’s up to him to make a life for himself outside of the only life he ever knew. Bucky’s not exactly sure how to start. 

“Can I take your name, love?”

The question is asked softly and by a young man who’s just approached Bucky from the side. He’s under an umbrella and holding a clipboard. Bucky hasn’t quite heard what he said, though.

“Pardon me?”

“Your name,” he repeats. “Can I take it?”

“Oh.” Bucky, finding himself in something of a daze nods. “Jam–” 

He stops. The man here, waiting patiently for Bucky to give him his name, tilts his head slightly. It’s just that Bucky’s realized something and he looks back to the Statue of Liberty for courage. He gets to be whoever he wants to be now. He gets to be free. 

“Bucky,” he murmurs, eyes still on the statue and a soft pull at his lips. “Bucky Rogers.”

Maybe it’s in this, claiming his own identity for himself, that Bucky will truly begin a life of his own. 

By nine-thirty in the evening, it’s still cold and it’s still raining and the Carpathia is now on it’s way back to its own Cunard Line pier at Pier 54. The ship had bypassed its pier and sailed up the river to Pier 59, the berth for the White Star Line, to drop off empty lifeboats. It’s a strange, uneasy feeling to watch all the empty lifeboats pile up in the very spot that the passengers were meant to have been. 

Instead, it remains dark and desolate as the Carpathia sails back to Pier 54 to let off booked passengers and the survivors of Titanic. 

Bucky, at the rail of the ship, notices a tug boat filled with photographers following them to the pier, the flashlights of cameras lighting up the ship in the night sky and revealing that the docks are crammed with people. There’s got to be at least tens of thousands of people gathered around the pier, and not just family members. 

He’s not the only one who’s noticed, either. He’s been joined by several people at the rail, Sam included, who murmur and wonder about how this is going to be handled. Truth be told, Bucky has no interest in having cameras shoved in his face or strangers asking him invasive questions about what happened. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever. It doesn’t look like most of the survivors think much differently than him. 

On the pier itself, waiting in almost complete silence, are most likely the friends and relatives waiting to get to their loved ones. Bucky doesn’t mind them. 

“Shit,” Sam mutters. “There’s gotta be thirty thousand people out there.”

And maybe another ten thousand lining the Battery. 

There are ambulances, too, their red lights flashing as they wait to take the sick and injured to hospitals. Government officials there, most likely to take a report of what happened. Reporters and photographers that swarm everywhere. There’s a mob of them as they pack the streets and line the tops of cars and trucks. Bucky swears he even sees some standing on the roofs of nearby buildings. 

Captain Rostron decides it’d be best if the Carpathia passengers disembark first, obviously realizing that the scene below will become tumultuous as soon as the survivors first appear. 

Bucky looks up when Sam puts an arm around his waist and tugs him in close. Sam doesn’t take his gaze away from everything happening on the pier as the last of the Carpathia passengers steps off the ship. 

“Stick with me,” he says. “I don’t wanna get separated.”

“Okay,” Bucky whispers and watches as that moment finally comes. 

When a woman survivor with teary eyes and makeshift clothes descends the gangway and stumbles away from the ship into the arms of an officer, the crowd wails with sounds of shrieks and sobs. The magnesium flashes of the photographers’s cameras go off like small bombs, blinding Bucky and startling him every time. Several hundred police keep the mob back. 

It’s absolute pandemonium and for a second or two, Bucky needs to remind himself that he’s safe. He’s not on a sinking ship. These cries and shouts are not that of panic or anguish, but a frenzy of hope and curiosity. 

Bucky walks with Sam and a group of steerage passengers as reporters shove and push to get close to any of the survivors, tugging on them as they pass and shouting over each other to ask them questions. More than once, the blanket over Bucky’s shoulders is snagged by someone and he needs to jerk away from them. Immigration officers are asking them questions as they come off the gangway. 

The officer steers them toward a holding area for processing. They walk forward with some dazed and confused immigrants. The loud boom of the camera’s flashes causes them to flinch and even Sam holds a hand to his eyes to protect them. 

A sudden disturbance near them grabs everyone’s attention. Two men burst through the cordon, running to embrace an older woman walking along the survivors. The woman cries out with joy when they reach her. The reporters are quick to capture this moment, converging on this emotional scene, flashes exploding. 

While everyone is distracted, Bucky and Sam take the opportunity to slip away into the crowd. They push through the jostling people, moving with a purpose, and no one challenges them in the confusion. 

Once they break free from the crowd, Bucky has a chance to breathe and think again. There are still tons of people around, but not nearly as much as by the pier. Behind them, that mob is still roaring. Catching his breath, Bucky glances to Sam and sees that he’s got his hands over his ears. Very gently, Bucky places his hand on Sam’s back. Almost immediately, Sam relaxes. His shoulders drop. He breathes out. He lowers his hands.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks. “Sam?”

“Yeah.” He nods and sniffles. “I’m okay. You?”

“Yes. I’m okay.”

“Right. Come on, this way.” 

As Sam starts to lead them down the street, Bucky takes a glance back to where all those people had been waiting for their friends and family, and wonders why he didn’t look for them there. 

“But, Sam,” he says, “won’t your family…” 

“They won’t be over there,” Sam answers. “You think all them white folk are gonna let anyone different from them wait there?”

“O-oh.”

Now that Bucky takes a better look around, he realizes that most of the people waiting here are of color. Just like separating classes aboard the Carpathia, seems even in the face of a disaster, mixing is simply not allowed. 

When they round the corner, Sam starts craning his neck to search over the heads of people blocking his view. Since Bucky can’t help in this, he keeps quiet and tries to stay out of the way. 

“Sam?!” someone cries over the murmuring crowd. “Sam! Sam, over here!” 

Just a little ways down the block, a man is standing on a horse-drawn cart, waving a derby cap back and forth. As soon as Sam spots him, he breaks away from Bucky and runs that way. The man hops off the cart and meets him halfway, and the two catch each other in a tearful hug. 

This man looks a lot like Sam, only a little older and taller and with thicker hair. But from what Bucky saw, he has the same big, warm eyes and he holds Sam now with all the tenderness in the world. 

“Gideon,” Sam says, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You’re here.”

“Of course,” Gideon replies. “You didn’t think I’d leave my little brother stranded, did you?” He pulls away now and holds Sam’s shoulders at arm’s length. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor? Dr. Banner will come to see you, he already told Mom–”

“I’m okay, Gideon,” Sam assures him. “I just wanna go home.” 

Sam’s voice splinters at the end of his sentence and, ducking his head down, he needs to catch a jagged breath. That doesn’t stop the tears from coming, though. 

“All right,” Gideon whispers, pulling Sam back in and cupping the back of his head when he rests it on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

They turn then, and head back to the cart Gideon had been standing on, and even though Bucky has no place else to go, he’s not about to interrupt their tender moment. Only it doesn’t matter. Sam doesn’t get more than a few paces with his brother before he stops and turns back around. 

“Wait, wait,” he says to Gideon. “We forgot someone.” 

“We did?”

“Yeah.” Sam beckons Bucky to come over to them. “This here’s Bucky. He’s, uh, he’s gonna live with us for a while.”

Gideon takes a moment to look over Bucky and Bucky can take a guess at what he sees. While he may be disheveled and in a horrid state, he’s still in a suit under the blanket he’s got around his shoulders. He’s even still wearing Alex’s overcoat. Bucky is very clearly not a steerage passenger. Or wasn’t always.

“It’s all right, Gideon,” Sam whispers with an added pat to his back. “He ain't like them.” 

“Okay.” Gideon sort of shrugs and gestures for the cart. “It ain’t very comfortable, but it beats walkin’. Don’t worry, I just deliver produce to the grocers ‘round the city. No fertilizer or nothin’ like that.” 

“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m sure it’ll be just fine.” 

Before climbing into the seat next to his brother, Sam helps Bucky onto the flatbed of the cart. There are a few empty sacks already on it. Sam piles them together.

“Why don’t you try gettin’ some sleep?” he suggests. “You look exhausted.” 

He feels exhausted right down to the very marrow of his bones. Every part of him aches. Whether physically or emotionally. Bucky just wants to break down in tears.

Still, he holds it together for now because Sam doesn’t look that much better off than Bucky feels. But since he’s with his brother, there’s some more life in his eyes. As if being with family for just a few minutes has reminded him that he’s loved and there’s something to look forward to even if he can’t figure out what just yet. 

Bucky lays his head down on the makeshift pillow and curls up under the blanket. It’s still cold and his clothes and hair are still wet, but Gideon is right in saying it’s better than walking. The cart rocks back and forth as the horse pulls it across the late night streets of Manhattan, slowly lulling Bucky to sleep. 

As he drifts between wakefulness and sleep, he wonders if it’s really possible to exchange one life for another. A caterpillar turns into a butterfly. If an insect could do it, there isn’t any reason that Bucky can’t as well. 

Really, it’s no more unimaginable than the sinking of the Titanic. 

***

By the time the cart comes to a slow stop, the rain has turned to a misty drizzle. Bucky wakes to Sam and Gideon speaking softly. Not wanting to eavesdrop, he shifts a little, his body stiff and achy, to see where they are. 

He’s surrounded by a cluster of buildings all about four to six stories high. There are boxes of garbage in front of them and close lines stretched behind them. Sheets and shirts and undergarments hang from some of those lines, still dripping. Most of the fire escapes also have things hanging from them. Some of them even have tons of wooden boxes on them, most likely holding more clothes or other possessions that the tenants have no room for inside their apartments. 

Because of the rain, there are puddles of muddy water along the dirt road and old, moldy produce and even some small articles of clothing float through the gutters. Most of the arc street lights are out, but there’s one lit at the end of the block. From what Bucky can see, almost all of the first floors are storefronts. There are empty carts, like the one Gideon has, lining the street.

This is so different from anything Bucky’s ever seen before. Perhaps his servants have seen it. Or rather, his former servants. When they went to the market to buy things for the home. Food for their table and fabrics for their clothes and wood for their fireplaces. Bucky never really considered why their home was always stocked or that their servants were the ones to go out to places like this to buy everything. 

Still looking at all the buildings and stores all crammed together, Bucky doesn’t realize that Sam has been trying to get his attention. 

“Come on, buddy,” he whispers. “Let’s get outta the rain.” 

Bucky slips off the back of the cart and follows them into the third building on the block. There’s almost something morbidly humorous about this when Bucky thinks about it. When he left for Europe, Bucky had several suitcases and steamer trunks full of possessions and personal belongings. Piles of clothes and books and art. A personal maid, now lost to the icy depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

Now, upon his return to America, Bucky enters a dark tenement building with naught but the clothes on his back and the kindness of a steerage passenger who’s offered him a place to stay. 

There’s a draft wafting through the building. The hallways are narrow and the ceilings low. A foul, caustic smell comes from everywhere. Wallpaper is torn in big sections off the wall. The climb up the staircase is quiet, save for the steps creaking beneath their feet. They climb up three stories and then go to the first unit on the right. 

Gideon’s barely gotten the door open when a woman is bursting through it and pulling Sam into her arms. She’s crying and keeps trying to get her arms around him even more. She’s murmuring things. Soft words of love and affection and motherly tenderness. She’s very insistent that she’s never allowing him to leave home again. 

Sam, perhaps agreeing with the sentiment at the moment, says nothing. He just allows himself to be held and buries his face between his mother’s neck and shoulder. Crying as well, Bucky thinks. 

“All right, c’mon,” Gideon says after several minutes. “Let’s get ‘im inside, Mama.”

When they walk in, several more people join Sam’s mother in hugging him. Two women and two little boys. Once Gideon closes the door behind him, he hugs him again as well. 

While the Wilsons continue with their tearful and heartfelt reunion, Bucky stands to the side, awkward and unsure. Their home isn’t much warmer than the hallway, but that little bit still makes a difference. It’s small. Very small. Smaller than Bucky’s bedroom at home. Only three rooms in total, the cramped quarters are warmly lit by oil lamps. One even hangs from a hook in the ceiling.

The front room is crowded with shabby furniture. A few big chairs. One rocking chair. The upholstery of the small settee is worn and has rips and tears. There’s a narrow wooden table with sewing supplies on it. A small, wooden wardrobe is pushed up against the wall covered in piles of clothes and blankets and a wooden table clock and even things like spools of string and yarn and fabric. Three different sized dress forms are next to it, one with two types of fabrics draped over it. On the other end of the room is a treadle sewing machine. Next to it is a metal bed with a thin mattress and folded blankets piled at the end of it. A small, circular rug covers the center of the rough wooden floor.

“Okay, okay.” Sam lets out a shaky breath when Gideon speaks again. “Let a man breathe.”

Everyone except for Sam’s mother moves away just enough to give him some room. His mother keeps her arms around his waist and her head on his shoulder. 

There’s a moment of awkward silence before they begin talking. First about Titanic. Sam tells them about Steve’s winning hand and how they got the tickets that way. He doesn’t talk about what happened so much. Mostly just what it was like before that. How great the ship had been. How good the food was. How nice the accommodations were. 

After just a few minutes, he switches talks about the ship to talks about his trip. Everyone seems perfectly fine with this and simply goes along with it. They ask him questions about Europe. 

By listening to their conversations, Bucky learns that the two other women here are Sam’s sister, Sarah, and Gideon’s wife, Daphne. The two little boys, Jim and Jody, are his nephews. They all live here. Together. In this tiny space. And yet, Sam’s still offered Bucky a place to stay. Even though they have so little room as it is. 

No one has paid any attention to him lurking just out of their doorway. In fact, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if none of the others have even realized that he’s there at all. He hasn’t called any attention to himself. It’s fairly dark in here. Neither Sam or Gideon have said anything. 

When they finally do realize their family moment is being intruded on by a complete stranger–only because Jody tugs on Sam’s sleeve and asks about him–everyone falls silent. 

“Oh. Damn, I’m sorry, I–” Sam closes his eyes. Bucky’s not sure who he’s apologizing to, him or his family, but if it’s to him, he certainly has no need. “I wasn’t thinking. Uh. Mama, this is a friend of mine…”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Wilson says. “You must be Steve.” That assumption, while completely reasonable, runs through Bucky like a hot poker. “Sam told us so much about you every time he wrote home.”

“No, Mama,” Sam whispers. “This isn’t…Steve didn’t…he, um.” He sighs and visibly holds back tears. “This is Bucky, actually. We met on the ship. And he was a close, _personal_ friend of Steve’s.” 

“You mean…” She looks between the two of them and then blesses herself as understanding fills her face. “Well, love is a gift in whatever form it comes in. Even if we only have it for a short while.” 

Bucky smiles softly in response and wishes he could find his voice to say something kind back to her. 

“Bucky doesn’t have a place to stay,” Sam tells her. “So, he’s gonna stay with us for a bit.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any more money,” Bucky whispers. “But I can…” He trails off there, unsure how to finish that. He can what? He can’t cook or sew. He’s never performed a menial task in his life. “I…I can’t do much, but I can learn and I can do whatever I can to help.”

For the first time since they walked in, Mrs. Wilson leaves her son’s side and comes over to where Bucky shifts his weight from foot to foot. She stops right in front of him. Sees, most likely, what Gideon had earlier. His life, up until right now, has been very different from theirs.

“We’ll figure somethin' out, dear. Starting over ain't ever easy,” she tells him. “Might not look like too much, but it’s better than sleepin’ outside.”

Just a few days ago–though, it feels much longer now–Bucky had felt so insecure and embarrassed by the size of his suite when he’d brought Steve there. He feels even worse now. Ashamed. He’s had so much. Everything was always his for the taking.

While Bucky didn’t look down upon the unfortunate with contempt and disdain, he never really gave them much thought, either. He never considered how the other half lived and if he did, he’d been naive enough to believe that their complaints were exaggerations. 

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Wilson.” 

Truly, it is. Despite its small size, it’s still warm and inviting. There’s something cozy about it. Charming, even. It’s in the homey touches. The decorative hangings on the walls and embroidered pillows on the settee. The framed pictures. Even the cute calendar on the window sill. 

“I’m sure it’s very different than what you’re used to,” she replies. “We're lucky, though, this is one of the only buildings in the neighborhood with indoor plumbing, but the bathroom is across the hall, I’m afraid. Now, why don’t we find you both some fresh clothes and then you can have some food.” 

At the wardrobe, Mrs. Wilson retrieves pajamas for both of them–cotton shirts and pants. Two pairs of socks each. When Bucky promises that this is only temporary, that he won’t be a burden, she tells him not to worry. That he’s welcome to stay as long as he needs.

After hanging their coats up on the coat stand inside, he and Sam change in the bedroom. This room, with one bed big enough for a couple and two smaller ones squeezed in, isn’t much bigger than the front room. There are two small closets with curtains for doors and a small dresser with a water pitcher and basin on it. Hanging from the hooks in the wall are nightdresses and robes. 

“We can clean your clothes,” Sam says. “Mom and Sarah are seamstresses and Daphne is a laundress. Gideon and I can do it, too, but they have a special touch.” 

By the way Sam tries to smile at the end there, Bucky thinks he’s trying to fool around with him a little and just isn’t sure how. Neither is Bucky. But he can give it a try, too.

“I don’t think I’ll be invited to many dinner parties,” he says. “Maybe you should sell it for whatever it’s worth now.” 

They both share an awkward smile and just before they’d leave to go into the kitchen to rejoin the rest of Sam’s family, Sam places a hand over Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I miss him, too,” he murmurs. “Next to my father and brother, Steve was…the best man I ever knew. And I don’t think…I don’t think he’d want us wallowing away in this.” Already, Bucky needs to hold his breath. If he lets it out, he might lose his carefully placed composure. “I think he’d want us to remember him and be happy. So, why don’t we try to laugh at least once tonight? We’ll laugh once. For Steve.” 

Nowhere in Bucky’s promise to Steve did he say he had to laugh, but Sam is right. Steve’s laugh was joyous and infectious and, if anything, he’d want them both to laugh in his honor. If he can’t, then they must. 

“Okay,” Bucky answers, then takes hold of Sam’s hand and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “For Steve. And for us.” 

Sam nods. “And for us.” 

They keep that promise while in the kitchen, sitting around the wooden table eating warm bread and soup. Nothing really happens that’s particularly humorous. Bucky’s just sitting with the Wilsons while they talk and sometimes ask him a question or two about himself when he just starts to laugh. Because he’s walked away from everything he’s ever known. Because he has absolutely nothing to his name. Because he loved more fiercely in just a few days than some people do in their entire lives. 

And he hurts. Inside and out. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs and demand that the universe tell him why all of this happened. He wants to curl into himself and bawl. He wants to punch his fist through a wall and feel something other than this pain inside his chest. 

But despite all the pain and anguish and confusion and guilt, Bucky Rogers is free. 

And that alone, is worth a smile and a laugh. 

***

Someone screams. 

A soft song wafts gently over all the horror.

The world shudders beneath him.

Ice clings to his skin. 

All around him people are dying. Crying. Pleading for help that won’t ever come and when it does it’ll be too late. 

He cries out as loud as he can but no matter how hard he tries nothing comes out of his mouth. He’s holding onto Steve’s hand. Keeping him afloat. But he’s losing his grip. He’s so tired and so cold and everything hurts. There’s nothing he can do to save him. Steve slips away and sinks. He seems to fade out like a spirit returning to some immaterial plane, leaving Bucky. Alone. All alone in this icy water among the terrified screams and desperate pleas. 

Bucky wakes with a gasp ripped from his lungs and the sound of people’s screams ringing in his ears. He bolts upright, hand at his chest as he tries to steady his breathing. He’s trembling tonight. That was the worst of the nightmares. 

Hand scrubbing over his face and two weeks worth of stubble, Bucky pulls the blankets around his shoulders. It’s cold tonight. Out the window, there’s a soft gray tinge in the distance. Leaning back on the settee that’s become his bed in the Wilson’s home, Bucky tries to remind himself that he’s safe. They’re just dreams, these nightmares he’s had almost every night. All those screams. The people splashing. That cold. None of it is real. Not anymore. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Over on the bed on the other side of the room, Sam is also sitting up. Bucky hopes he didn’t wake him. 

“No,” he whispers with a shake of his head. “You?”

“Mm-mm. ‘Nother nightmare?”

Bucky rubs his eyes. He’d like to say no. Say that he just can’t sleep because he’s uncomfortable. That wouldn’t be completely dishonest. But if Sam can’t sleep, it’s likely for the same reason, and no one here is going to try to make Bucky feel badly about it. 

“Yeah.”

“Me, too.” Sam shifts a bit. “You want company?”

Sitting up the rest of the way, Bucky slides over and pats the spot next to him. Blankets still wrapped around his shoulders, Sam comes to sit beside him. As soon as he’s there, they lean against one another, just like they did on the Carpathia. Sometimes, this is more comfortable than laying down on the settee. There’s something comforting in the company. The shared pain and understanding. 

The nightmares aren’t even the worst part. Bucky can deal with the nightmares. With the horrible screams that plague his panicked mind in the middle of the night. He can ignore the growing ache in his stomach whenever he first wakes and needs a second or two to remember where he is and why he’s here and how it’s come to this. He’s even okay with seeing Steve dead. Seeing his body frozen in time because seeing him like that is better than never seeing him again. 

The real nightmare begins when Bucky wakes every day without Steve. Without his mother. Without his sister. Everything he’s ever known is gone.

True, some of that is his own doing. There’s absolutely no part of him that wishes to crawl back to the life he left behind, but he’s suddenly found himself wanting for the first time in his life. There isn’t anyone here who will just get his meals prepared for him or wash his clothes for him or go to the market to fetch him whatever he needs. 

Bucky’s never felt more useless as he has during these past few weeks. 

Everyone here has a skill and those skills are what keep their home functioning and livable. 

Both the men and women do the cooking and cleaning together. For a family with such limited means, they put together lovely meals. Bucky’s never gone to bed or had to go through the day hungry. They cook bread and soups and even sometimes meat, always on Sundays unless the previous day’s earnings allowed them the luxury. Some mornings there were eggs, but mostly porridge.

Everything is cooked in the small kitchen on the wood burning, cast iron oven. Just like with the other two rooms, it’s very crowded. There are plates and glasses and pots and pans piled up on shelves and under shelves and even under the table. An ironing board is shoved in between the wall and stove. Under the thin bed, where Jim and Jody sleep, are various sized tin tubs used for washing clothes and even bathing. 

Washday is every Monday, which is apparently why they have their nice meat meal on Sunday. Since they’re lucky enough to have a small icebox, the leftovers serve as Monday’s supper. The day’s chores take up too much time to worry about any meal preparation. And until he saw it done for the first time, Bucky had no idea how much work went into something that sounds as simple as washing clothes.

But things need to be sorted and different linens go into different tubs and some things need to sit in boiling water while others need to soak in baking soda. The scrub boards and the dollies and their hands wrinkling in the hot water. The hard soap stinging cracked skin.

Everything gets hung out to dry on the lines between the buildings or a line that runs across the kitchen and over the stove. 

Tuesday is iron day, meaning everything washed the day before needed to be ironed the following day. It’s quite a skill to get the washing to the right dampness for ironing, because if it’s too dry, the creases won’t iron out, but if it’s too wet, the washing creases again immediately. 

So the washed is always folded carefully and rolled up on Monday so that the dampness will spread evenly through it by the next day, and if they thought the washing might be too dry, they’ll dampen it by sprinkling it with water before rolling it. 

Bucky’s watched with fascination as Mrs. Wilson or her daughter heated up the flat iron against the stove and touched their moistened finger to it to make sure it’s hot enough. And when everything’s finally just right, they fold them carefully and put them away. 

And they scrub the floors and dust the furniture and clean out the oven and wash the dishes and patch up torn clothing and…and… 

Bucky, desperately trying to be helpful, is still learning how to wash the dishes without breaking anything. The first time he tried to use the scrub brush to wash a teacup, he dropped it into the iron sink and broke it. He stood there at the sink with a half in each hand, stunned and horrified at what he’d done. 

“I…I’m so sorry,” he whimpered when Mrs. Wilson saw what had happened. “I didn’t…it was an accident…”

“It’s all right,” she said, collecting the broken halves and setting them aside. “Why don’t ya just stick with dryin’ ‘em, hm?”

She handed Bucky a rag and since that day, he’s handled every dish and glass as though they might crack into pieces in his hands. 

He knows that the consequences of breaking things aren’t as simple as just going out and getting a new one. If they can’t fix it, they lose them. 

Bucky still feels awful about it. 

As Sam told him, his mother and sister are seamstresses. If they’re not busy cleaning, they work all day long in the home putting together gowns and skirts and blouses for their customers. His sister-in-law works out of the home as a laundress, so after breakfast, she bids her children farewell and walks the mile and a half to do other people’s laundry for nine hours at the wet wash. Every morning, before dawn, Gideon gets up and meets with farmers coming that day and delivers their fresh produce to the grocers. Sam has been rehired at the barbershop to sweep hair for now. So long as he doesn’t leave again, he hopes to get his chair back, but for now, he’s offering a shave and a cut for half the price to those in the building. His two nephews have small wooden crates that they carry around with them all day so they can shine shoes for a nickel.

Bucky, on the other hand, is lucky enough that he’s gotten a job as a paperboy. Because the only job he’s capable of getting is a job done by children. Which he only received because Sam loaned him the first few dollars. Every afternoon, Bucky buys a hundred copies of the afternoon edition of _The Evening World_ and does his best to sell all of them at one cent a piece with a profit of half a cent per paper. He is lucky that the Newsboys’ Strike happened a few years earlier. Now, if he can’t sell all the papers by late evening, he can sell them back to the company. This means he neither takes a loss nor needs to work late into the night. 

Which hardly means he gets back earlier. Bucky spends hours outside with all the other boys trying to sell papers until long after the sun sets. He’s usually cold and exhausted and starving by the time he gets back to Sam’s home. 

So far, he’s made two dollars and thirty-eight cents, most of which he’s given to the Wilsons. The only reason it hasn’t all gone to them is because Mrs. Wilson insists that he keep some of it.

“Ain’t easy gettin’ out there on your own,” she’s said. “You earnin’ your money, you get to keep some of it.”

As of right now, Bucky has forty cents to his name. Forty cents more than when he stepped off the Carpathia, but forty cents isn’t worth what it used to be. There’s a typewriter in the window of the department store Bucky passes every day. It’s on sale right now. For twenty-five dollars instead of thirty. Bucky’s measly forty cents isn’t going to do him much good.

Besides which, he knows he shouldn’t be spending money on something like a typewriter. He needs to get his own clothes since the clothes he’s been reusing every day belonged to Sam. He needs to be able to buy his own medicine in case he gets sick. He’d like to buy himself a pillow. 

Bucky doesn’t have enough for any of that. Not yet anyway. He will. All he has to do is keep working and he’ll get it. He’s going to make it on his own. 

“What’re ya thinkin’ about?” Sam asks. “Anything good?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Mind sharin’? I could use some good.”

Bucky takes hold of his hand. Gives it a soft squeeze. He doesn’t know if this will help any, but he’ll share anyway. Maybe just getting his mind away from whatever nightmare has kept him up tonight will be a help.

“I was thinking that I hate this,” he says. “That I feel totally useless. I don’t know how to do anything.”

For a moment, Sam doesn’t respond to that. Then, “That’s a…good thing?”

A smile touches Bucky’s mouth. “To me. Yes.” 

“Care to explain?”

“I’m not giving up,” he explains. “Maybe I don’t know anything now, but I…I will. I know I will. I don’t need my mother and I don’t need Alex. I can do it on my own. Well…”

“You can,” Sam says. “And you are. You’re doin’ real good, kid.” 

Bucky’s not precisely sure just how true that is, but the sentiment still makes him feel a little warm inside. Still, he’s doing it. The best he can, anyway. Even if he has a little bit of help it’s better than having to marry Alex to survive. 

Not a day has gone by where Steve isn’t at the forefront of his mind, though. Hell, not even an hour, really. There’s always something that reminds Bucky of him. Whether it’s the clear, blue sky or someone drawing or someone’s hearty laugh. It’s hard not to think about him.

Sometimes, for a moment or two, Steve and Titanic and ungodly fear aren’t the only things on his mind. It’s during these moments that Bucky remembers there are still good times to be had. The sun shines warmly on his skin. Books are still being written. Art is still being created. Life goes on, and Bucky, struggling but giving it his all, goes on with it.

“I should start on breakfast,” Sam says when streaks of pinks and golds swirl through the dawn-lit sky. “Wanna help?”

Sam’s on his feet already and offers a soft, even teasing, grin. He’ll gladly take Bucky’s help and show him a thing or two in the kitchen, but the teasing is still there. Bucky doesn’t mind.

“Okay,” he whispers and follows Sam into the kitchen. “We bought eggs yesterday.”

By we, he means Gideon and himself. They went to the market together after Gideon finished his deliveries and before Bucky picked up his papers for the afternoon. 

“I can show you how to boil them,” Sam says. “It’s not hard.”

“I…” Bucky clears his throat. Says, softly, “I don’t know how to light the oven yet.” 

Face burning red when Sam swings a smile his way, Bucky is once again overcome by a sense of helplessness. He doesn’t even know how to start a fire to light the oven. But Sam just claps a hand down on his shoulder and leads him to the stove. He opens the oven door and tells Bucky to spread a layer of coal across the grate. This sees Bucky’s hands filthy first thing in the morning, but they are lucky to have running water in the room. When he tries to light the coal, following Sam’s instructions, he wastes three of the five remaining matchsticks before he finally gets it.

Though Sam says not to worry about it, _We needed to get more in a day or so anyway_ , Bucky feels incredibly bad. He’ll take some of his money today to buy more. 

“I keep wondering,” Bucky says after Sam’s explained how to boil the eggs and they sit at the small round table waiting for the water to boil, “if he’d just think I’m a burden.” 

“Who?” Sam asks, then eyebrows shooting up as if he’s realized what Bucky means by that. “You mean _Steve_?” Bucky’s stomach twists, same as it always does when they talk about him. “No. No way. That’d be the furthest thing from his mind.” 

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“Nice nothin’.” Sam chuckles. “Just the truth. That man didn’t have it in him to think of anyone as a burden. And he loved you. That I know for sure.”

A smile lifts in Bucky’s heart. They never really got to say that to each other. Yes, he said it to Steve before he died, but then Steve was gone before they were rescued. It’s nearly as good hearing it from his best friend. 

“Sam, I…” Bucky reaches into his pocket for something he put in there on his first night on the Carpathia. He places his engagement ring on the table. “I want you and your family to have this.”

When Sam sees what he’s put there, his eyes go wide. He even shakes his head a few times before finally responding.

“No, we…” He shakes his head again. “We can’t. This is yours.” 

“Mm-mm. No. It’s his. And I don’t want it.” 

“But you could sell this,” Sam says. “This thing is worth a fortune. You can get yourself a nice place with the money from this.” 

“So can you.” 

“You’re crazy, Bucky Rogers.” Sam grins at him anyway. “You know that?”

“Yeah.” Bucky smiles back. A real, genuine smile. “I know it.” 

Sam scoops the ring off the table and takes a good, hard look at it. He sighs, holding it out to Bucky between two fingers.

“I tell you what. We’ll sell it. Then we’ll decide how to split the money, okay?”

Though Bucky wishes to argue, the lift of Sam’s eyebrows keeps him from doing so. He gets that expression from Mrs. Wilson. Bucky’s seen it quite a few times since he’s been here. It generally left no room for argument, so Bucky nods and agrees, if only for now. 

After breakfast, Bucky helps a bit around the home. He sweeps the kitchen and dries the dishes. For such a small place, the window in the kitchen gets awfully dirty quite fast, so Bucky wipes it clean with a rag. The glass always comes out streaky but it’s better than the dust.

It still feels like he just woke up an hour ago by the time he needs to go pick up his papers for the afternoon. Bucky dresses in the same pair of corduroy trousers, held up by old, slightly too big suspenders, and a cotton shirt that has stains on it. It’s not all that cold out today, but he still wears the tweed jacket Gideon lets him use. Standing outside for hours and it gets cold.

His back aches and his legs hurt and it’s a little tough to turn his neck all the way, but Bucky knows that if this is the only way to earn his keep, he’s got to fight it out. Eventually, he suspects, he’ll get used to standing out there trying to sell papers. 

Every afternoon, Bucky comes back sweaty and exhausted. Doesn’t matter that it’s not even very warm yet. He had no idea how tiring selling newspapers could possibly be. An unthankful job, too. People brush by him, shove past him, ignore him. If someone does happen to stop for a paper, they’re impatient and oftentimes rude. 

Today is particularly bad seeing how it rained last night. Whenever a carriage happens to roll through a puddle, its wheels tend to kick up dirty water and mud. Bucky gets splattered at least a little almost every time one passes. The bottoms of his trousers are already filthy and a ring of sweat clings to his skin under his derby cap. And he’s only been out for an hour at most.

“Bucky!” He glances down the block to see that Gideon is racing toward him, arm in the air trying to get his attention. “Bucky!”

"Uh, _excuse_ me." Bucky turns back around to the customer who's just given him a nickel for his paper. "My change?"

"Oh, um. Right. Sorry. Here you are.

Bucky hurries to hand the man his change and turns just as Gideon, winded and breathless, reaches him. 

“What is it?” Bucky asks. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s…he…you have to get back. Now.”

“What happened? Is someone hurt?”

Gideon shakes his head. “No. No, it’s not that. It’s just…you _have_ to go.” 

“I, what?” Bucky shakes his head and gestures to his pile of papers yet to be sold. “I can’t just leave. I–”

But Gideon shakes his head and claps his hands down on both of Bucky’s shoulders. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d think Gideon was about to shake him.

“I’ll sell ‘em for you. You gotta get back. Go.” While he doesn’t shake him, he does turn him in the right direction. “Now!”

Rattled and confused, Bucky doesn’t question him any further and just heads back. Though Gideon’s assured him that no one is hurt, Bucky worries that something must be wrong anyway. There’s no other reason for him to suddenly show up and demand that he return. 

Bucky tries to hurry. The urgency in Gideon’s insistence that he get back as soon as possible pushes him to go even quicker. 

By the time he finally reaches the building, he’s just as out of breath and winded as Gideon had been. He rushes up the three flights of stairs to get him to the Wilson’s unit and when he’s there, the door is partially ajar. He pauses. Hears voices. Hushed. 

Even more confused now, Bucky gently eases the door all the way open. What he sees is Sam with tears streaming down his cheeks talking to someone who has his back to Bucky. Bucky freezes. He stops breathing. His heart skips a beat. Eyes closing, he shakes his head and looks again. Because he simply cannot understand what he’s looking at. 

When Sam notices him in the doorway, he gives him a shaky smile, a few additional tears spilling over. That’s when their guest turns. And Bucky smothers down a sob. 

“Steve…” 

It’s just a breath of a word. All Bucky can manage with all these emotions taking hold of him at once. Every single one of them gravitate toward Steve. Steve. Who’s standing here. In front of him. Right now. 

Tears in his eyes, Steve stares at him for a moment before he releases a shaky breath of his own and smiles at him. 

“Hello, beautiful.” 

“Oh, god, Steve!” he cries, launching himself across the room. “You’re alive!”

Steve moves the second Bucky does. They meet halfway, Steve catching him in his arms. As soon as he’s there, Steve buries his face between his neck and shoulder. They cling to each other, sobbing, and dear _God_ if this is a dream please never let him wake again. Not even heaven can be better than this. Here. In Steve’s arms. 

“You’re alive…” Bucky weeps. “Oh, Steve, you’re alive!”

The first few times Steve tries to reply aren’t successful. All that comes out of his mouth are broken gasps and sobs and a blubber of unspoken words. He doesn’t lift his head from where it’s ended up, but he keeps pressing kisses to where his lips can touch. 

“I promised,” he finally says, barely above a whisper. “I promised you I’d…Bucky. Oh, _Bucky_ , I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

Steve goes on saying that. Over and over again. Apologizing and saying his name, and Bucky can just listen to his name roll off his tongue so sweetly for the rest of his life. 

“I don’t understand,” Bucky blubbers. “You were dead. I saw you.”

“Almost,” Steve whispers, wrapping his arms tighter around him. “I would be if it wasn’t for you. They were pretty sure I wasn’t gonna make it.” 

Refusing to part from Steve even in the slightest, Bucky cries into his shirt. Harder sometimes before letting up just enough to speak again. 

“Where…where…” Well, maybe not just yet. “But you weren’t…”

Steve seems to understand anyway. One arm around his waist still pulling him close, he uses his other hand to cup the back of Bucky’s head. 

“They had me in the doctor’s cabin. I woke up in the hospital,” he says, “three days after the Carpathia docked in New York.”

They didn’t know who he was, he explains to them. They had no one to contact on his behalf. When he woke, he asked for a list of survivors. The doctors couldn’t give him a full list but were courteous enough to look into the names he gave them. Of all of them, he’d been told that only Sam Wilson and some of the Bartons had made it. But, of course, they would tell him that. Steve inquired about James Buchanan Barnes. As far as the world is concerned, James Buchanan Barnes is gone. 

“I was allowed out of the hospital this afternoon. I came here looking for Sam. I never thought…I didn’t…I thought…” He lets out another gasp. “Oh, Bucky,” Steve cries, “I thought I’d lost you, too.” 

Bucky doesn’t know how long the two of them stand there like that. At some point, the both of them reach out for Sam and pull him over as well. Steve apologizes to him as well, but Bucky’s sure there’s a lot more to those apologies. Between the three of them, the love is so strong that the whole world should be envious. 

After some time, though none of the emotions have calmed and waves of them continue to crash over Bucky, he manages to move away just enough to look into Steve’s eyes. To touch his face. Stroke fingertips along tear-streaked cheeks. Steve’s hands–those big, beautiful artist’s hands–frame Bucky’s face between them.

“Bucky,” he murmurs, allowing more tears to spill. “I love you. I love you so much. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Steve.” Bucky presses his hands over his. “Promise me. Promise me just one thing.” 

“Anything.” Steve nods, clearly holding back a fresh round of tears. “Anything at all.” 

“Never leave me again.”

“Never.” His voice cracks with emotion. “Never again.”

Unable to hold this next round of hysterics back, Bucky attempts to wrap his mind around all of this. Steve is here. Alive. He spent all this time believing Bucky was dead. The powerful and overwhelming realization that this is all real, it’s all happening, is enough to knock Bucky right off his feet. 

It might even be too much for one person to handle, but Bucky doesn’t have to handle it on his own because Steve is alive. He’s _alive_ and right here with him. Steve’s come back to him. Steve loves him. Wants to spend the rest of his life with him. And there’s only one thing Bucky can think to say and do in this moment.

“Oh, Steve. I love you, too.”

Bucky throws his arms around him again and this time, their lips lock and they kiss with more passion than he ever experienced in his entire life. Their hearts and souls poured into one another. There were still things they needed to figure out. Where they’d live. Jobs. Money. But none of it mattered right now.

Because they had the rest of their lives to figure it all out. 

Together, they’d make every moment–the good, the bad, the hard, the easy, all of them–count. 


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**1997**

Bucky, still in the Imaging Shack with the group, sits in the soft glow of the screens turning his butterfly cufflink between his fingers. No one makes a sound, waiting for him to continue. Not even Scott, who had interrupted a few times to ask about the diamond, has remained silent. Both Winnie and Hope’s cheeks are stained with tear-tracks. Luis keeps wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. 

His story, he thinks, has put them aboard the Titanic during her final hours. This isn’t a computer forensic analysis. Not some haunting image of the wreckage. Not a statistic. The reality of what happened here more than eighty years ago lingers around them. The tragedy brought to life.

“Fifteen hundred people went into the ocean when Titanic sank from under us,” Bucky murmurs, eyes on the cufflink. “There were twenty boats floating nearby and only _one_ came back. _One_. Six people were saved from the water, myself and Steve included. Six. Out of fifteen hundred.”

Boat number fourteen. Bucky can still see the numbers painted on the side of it. Still see them swaying slightly as it turned to come back for them. 

“I caught a glimpse of Aldrich Killian when he was first brought onboard.” Bucky tries not to think of that. About the haunted look on the man’s face. “He had the eyes of a damned soul as he walked through the hall past other survivors.”

He tells them how Laura Barton eventually wrote to them from the farm in Missouri she moved to a few years later. He doesn’t tell them that she lost the baby she’d been pregnant with on the Carpathia. He tells them about the memorial built for Howard Stark, who’d been hailed a hero for his efforts in getting people off the ship. He doesn’t tell them how he and Steve never reached out to the family like they wanted. He tells them that they saved up for a year to send some money to Darcy’s family. He doesn’t tell them that by the time they had enough to send, it came back to them because her parents had passed away. 

Though they may have some knowledge on Peggy’s history, he tells them about her anyway. She’s always a person worth talking about.

“There are conflicting stories about whether or not she had a hand in the boat that came back,” he explains. “Some say she helped organize all the boats in the first place and even threatened to throw the quartermaster overboard. I wouldn’t be surprised, to be honest, but, I guess only the people on that boat know the truth.” He shrugs slightly, and doesn’t bother expanding on his opinion on the matter. He fully believes that Peggy did everything she could to help. “She’s the one who organized a survivors committee with some other First Class passengers to make sure Second and Third class passengers had basic necessities and informal counseling. She even presented Captain Rostron with an award for his services.”

Bucky tells them how she ran for the U.S. Senate in 1914 but ended her campaign to return to France to work with the American Committee for Devastated France during World War One. That she was an activist for workers and women’s rights and children’s literacy and Titanic survivors right up to her death in 1932. Her daughter, Sharon, picked up that activism and worked as a spy as part of the Special Operations Executive during World War Two. 

“Two years after Titanic,” Bucky says, “the world went to war for the first time. That was a conflicting time for Steve and me. Both of us wanted to help but neither of us wanted to separate.” 

He sighs, remembering the recruitment officer stamping their forms with the 4F that kept them home. An old, long ago shame at feeling relieved on both their behalf drips into Bucky’s heart again. A leaky faucet of guilt. They both felt a sense of duty. The thought of parting, however, nearly kept them from even trying. 

“Turned out that it didn’t matter. Steve had lost the hearing in his left ear from hypothermia and my lungs never fully recovered for being out in the water that long. So we couldn't. But Sam.” Bucky smiles with the thought. “Sam became a pilot. Received the Congressional Medal of Honor for his service after shooting down a German pilot headed for a troop transport.” 

They were all so proud. His picture had been in the local papers and everything. While Bucky and Steve hadn’t been able to go to the Capital to see the president give Sam the medal, they’d been waiting back at home to welcome him with showers of hugs and kisses. 

After he came back, Sam opened his own barbershop and, two years later, married Maria, a young woman who served as a nurse during the war. 

“They had nine kids together.” There’s a picture of the whole family in Bucky’s stateroom. “They still own the shop to this day.”

“What about Pierce?” Scott asks, and Bucky wonders if his mind has already gone back to trinkets and treasures, but he’s pleasantly surprised when he clarifies. “Did he ever find you?”

“No. In that, Mother kept her promise,” Bucky says with a soft shake of his head. “That was the last time I ever saw him. He married, of course, and inherited his millions. But the crash of ‘29 hit his interests hard…and he put a pistol in his mouth that year.” He offers a flick of disinterested eyebrows. “Or so I read.” 

There’s a pause between all of them. Well, except maybe Winnie, who only ever knew that she’d been named after her great-grandmother. The question simmers in their eyes and none of them seem to want to ask it.

“I never saw her or my sister again either,” he answers for them. “But after we adopted George and Sarah…” Which was probably easier for them to’ve done then than it ever would be now. “We started receiving gifts on Christmas and their birthdays. Nice things. New clothes and toys and even supplies.”

“And they were from…” Hope hesitates. Then, “They were from her?”

“Well.” Bucky grins, softly. “The tags on them weren’t signed with a name, but they were labeled. With the children’s names or a little message. I could easily recognize the handwriting. I can only assume that Peggy, who did visit one or twice a year, kept her informed about our well-being.”

It’s a funny thing. After they separated for good, Bucky felt more loved and closer to his mother than he had since his father died. Perhaps that’s what they needed all along. For Bucky to die as well. 

“We struggled,” Bucky admits. “But we always made it work, no matter how hard it got.” 

“We never found nothin’ on Steve Rogers,” Luis says. “There’s no record of him at all.”

Bucky smiles at this. There’s a very good reason for that and it still makes him all warm and fuzzy inside. Glowing. Steve always did know how to make him glow. 

“No, there wouldn’t be,” he replies. “You see, when he was in the hospital and thought me dead, he…” Bucky smiles down at the cufflink and places it gently back on the table. “He took my name. He came back to me as Steve Barnes.” He looks mostly at Winnie now. “And we’ve never spoken of this to anyone else, until now. Not even your to mother or uncle. A person’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets. But now you know our story,” he tells them, “and how Steve Rogers saved me. In every way a person can be saved. And we’ll live on through all of you.” 

Fingertips trailing over all his old possessions–his father’s watch, music box, his mother’s brooch–lost some eighty years ago and found again, Bucky remembers all over again what really matters. 

“You look for treasures in all the wrong places,” he tells the crew there. “Only life is priceless, and making each day count.”

On the monitors, Bucky watches the images changing as the submersible makes one final pass over the ship. It rises off the deck of the wreck, taking its light with it, leaving the Titanic once again in its fine and private darkness.

***

Scott, standing at the rail of the Iron Man, stares down at the black water. Behind him, a desultory party is underway. There’s music. Some dancing. A few bottles of champagne have been popped open. A celebration of sorts to wrap up this expedition. One that’s ended without meeting the goal. Scott isn’t quite sure how to feel about all this.

Something about Bucky’s story has his heart all twisted in knots. He’s been here, going through the wreck of Titanic, for weeks now and he’s only had a diamond on his mind. Yes, he knew the history. Yes, he knew the tragedy. Yes, he knew the famous passengers. But he never truly thought about the rest of it. The nameless faces. The whole families that didn’t make it. The stories that have no one to remember them. 

“Why are you sulking?”

He glances over his shoulder. Sees Hope approaching with a glass of champagne and a bottle of beer. She hands the bottle to him when she’s close enough.

“Not sulking.” Scott takes a sip of beer. “Just thinking.” 

“This isn’t a loss, y’know,” she says, leaning back against the rail. “We may not have found the diamond, but we got something.” 

“I know,” he agrees. “I think I’m just tryin’ to process all that.” 

“You believe it all?”

He smirks. “You don’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I do,” he says. “I’m a believer.” 

Smiling, Hope rests her head against his shoulder. Though she doesn’t come out and say it, Scott is sure she, too, believes in Bucky’s story. He has nothing to gain by lying. He’s asked for nothing in return for the telling of his story. Nothing but his drawing. Which they’ll make sure he gets.

When Hope nudges him in the ribs, Scott straightens and turns to see that Winnie is now coming over to them. She offers them both a stretch of a smile and a sympathetic shrug. 

“He always has a reason for doing things,” she says. “Even if they’re not clear.”

More than enough and then some. They may not have found the diamond, but they found something better. They’ll be able to bring a story back to life. One never told before. Scott smiles and plucks the cigar from his pocket. He turns it between his fingers and shows Winnie.

“I was saving this for when we found the diamond.”

Scott runs it under his nose to take in the scent one last time. He doesn’t need it any longer. There’s no need for a victory cigar. This is a victory in a whole different sense and he tosses it overboard. Hope places a gentle hand over his arm and smiles. 

“I’m sorry,” Winnie says.

“No reason to apologize,” Hope says. “I think we got more than enough for your grandfather.”

“For three years,” Scott replies, “I’ve thought about nothing but Titanic, but I don’t think I ever let myself really feel it. I never got it. Never let it in.” 

“Occupational hazard,” Hope teases. “C’mon, Mr. Lang, let’s go have a dance.” 

“Don’t mind if I do, Ms. Van Dyne.” He holds his arms out for both of them. “Care to join, Ms. Rogers?”

Winnie grins and loops her arm with his as well. He escorts them both to where all the fun is happening and thinks about how nice it’ll be to call Cassie tomorrow to tell her they’re coming home. Leaving Titanic to rest and living for the next precious moment. 

~~~

Bucky walks through the shadows of the deck machinery while Winnie enjoys her time with Scott and Hope up on the deck. The wind blows his hair and robe wildly around him. His feet are bare as he makes his way to the stern of the ship. He has his hands clutched at his chest, almost as if he’s praying. He doesn’t dare drop what’s within them.

When he makes it to the rail, he pauses, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one has spotted him. The coast is clear. There isn’t a single soul near him and Bucky inches closer to the rail. He peels one hand away from his chest to wrap it around the top rung, slips a foot on the bottom one, and hoists himself up. He leans forward to look at the black water lapping gently against the ship. At the place that nearly became his grave. Almost took the love of his life from him. Their best friend. 

So much tragedy in one spot. So much relived in such a short amount of time that Bucky needs a moment to catch his breath. He slowly lets it out. Glances down at the ocean again and then out across the endless span of water. Smiles. Bucky eases his hand open and looks at what he’s holding. _The Heart of the Ocean_. One of the main reasons he’s come here. To put the rest of his past behind him. 

The massive diamond glitters in his hand, even at night. An infinity of cold scalpels glint in its blue depths. Just like it did when he pulled it out of his pocket while still aboard the _Carpathia_ and stared at it in shock and amazement. 

He’s had this moment in his mind for the longest time. Thought about it for years. Finally, he’s made it here to put this back where it belongs. 

The hardest part about being so poor, was being so rich. But every time he thought of selling it, he thought of Alex. And somehow they always got by without his help. They discussed saving it for the Wilsons should they ever need it, but the engagement ring fetched enough money that the whole family was able to, and still did, live quite comfortably for the rest of their lives. 

They’d given a hundred dollars of that money to him and Steve. Though Sam tried to give them more, Bucky and Steve agreed that one hundred was plenty. It was plenty to get a decent apartment in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn and eventually, through hard work and scrimping and saving, they even bought themselves a modest single-family home where they were able to raise their family. They may not have had a lavishing life, but their children never went wanting. They had full bellies. Clean clothes. Warm beds. It was all Bucky and Steve ever hoped for. 

The legacy they’re leaving for them isn’t possessions or wealth, but love and happiness. The encouragement and support to follow their own hopes and dreams. 

Bucky takes one last took at the diamond. Smiles. Lets the diamond slip from his hand with a soft little ‘whoops’, as though it’s just an accident when really, it is very much on purpose. The splash it makes when it hits the water is very satisfying and it disappears beneath the surface of the cold, murky water, never to be seen again. 

Job finished, Bucky releases a satisfied sigh through a proud smirk before slowly getting down and then making his way back to his stateroom. It’s been a long few days. He needs his rest for the trip home tomorrow. The thought makes him smile as he slips under the soft blankets of his bed.

**Brooklyn, New York**

***

It feels good to be home. Right. Especially being greeted by eight excited and energetic great-grandchildren, who squeal that Grandpa Bucky is home and hurry over to hug and kiss him, four older grandchildren, and both his son and daughter, and all their spouses. It’s quite the welcome home committee, and Bucky is proud to say they’re his family. His greatest accomplishment. 

“Welcome home, Pop,” George says as he takes some of his luggage in from the front room. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Mm.” Bucky nods. “Little tired, is all.” 

“How about I make you something to eat?” Sarah offers. “Then you can go lie down.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I think I’ll go to the bedroom first. Gotta put the rest of my pictures back anyway.”

They hesitate before answering, first giving him tentative smiles. Bucky knows those expressions. Well-meaning, but nervous.

“How is he?” he asks. 

“A little confused,” Sarah answers. “He’s been asking for you.”

“Then, I had better go see him.” 

These four days have been the longest Bucky’s ever spent apart from his Steve since they reunited all those years ago and he’s anxious to get back to him. Doesn’t matter how confused he might get. 

As if knowing he’s not willing to be argued with, they all agree and tell him they’ll start on lunch while Winnie wheels him to the bedroom. In the queen-sized hospital bed, sleeping with an oxygen tube across his nose and wires on his chest hooked up to a heart monitor, is Steve. His husband. His lover. His soulmate. 

“Do you want help, Grandpa?” Winnie asks when Bucky starts rummaging through the suitcase with his pictures. 

“No, dear.” He waves her away. “You’ve helped me wonderfully this weekend. I’ll be fine.” 

She smiles and kisses his cheek before leaving him alone with Steve. Before he starts on the pictures, he watches Steve sleep, just content to be near him again. It doesn’t take him all that long to finish putting them back anyway since he knows where all of them go. Once he’s done, he admires them all. The life he’s had the privilege of living. 

When Steve moans softly behind him, Bucky turns to see that he’s beginning to wake. His eyes open. Look at him in mild confusion before easing into cool recognition. He smiles. Happy.

“Hello, beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re home.”

“I’m home.” Bucky nods. “I missed you.” 

“Missed you, too.” He smiles a little more. “Did you do it?”

“I did it.”

Eyes falling closed again, Steve hums softly and then holds his hand out for Bucky. Bucky takes it and lets Steve tug him onto the bed with him. Steve adjusts for the new position. They’re both careful not to disturb any of the tubes or wires. Mostly precautions rather than necessities. 

“My Bucky.” Steve breathes a kiss to the top of his hair when he has him wrapped in his arms. “God, I love you.”

Bucky grins against Steve’s chest. In eighty-four years, he’s never tired of hearing that. He presses a kiss to Steve’s lips and rests his head down again.

“I love you, too, Steve. So much. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for giving me such an extraordinary life.”

“I didn’t,” Steve says. “You lived it. And you let me live it with you.” 

“Well…” Bucky nuzzles under Steve’s chin. “You jump, I jump, right?”

This makes Steve hum and hug him tighter. The arms may have changed. Their strength lessened. But it’s still the same affection. The same place Bucky longs to be even after all these years.

“To the end of the line, my love.”

Bucky smiles more as his eyes ease closed. He is rather tired and Steve, he thinks, is drifting off again as well. They can drift together. Here. Warm in their bed.

Maybe it’s just a lingering memory of these past few days, but Bucky finds himself staring at the wreck of Titanic, looming like a ghost out in the dark. It’s lit by moonbeams and stardust. A light of the mind. He passes over an endless forecastle deck almost like he’s flying. 

The rust fades away from the walls of the dark corridor. Gradually, all is transformed. Restored to its former beauty and grandeur. All the opulence and magnificence it was made of. 

He is greeted by a smiling doorman who opens the door, allowing him entrance to the Grand Hall by the Grand Staircase. The glowing chandelier lights the room. The dome overhead is brilliant. The music is vibrant and the room is populated by so many happy faces. Faces he recognizes. 

Natalia is there with her family. On her arm, is Sam−the part of his heart that always belonged to her. Clint and Laura stand together with Lila and Cooper. A newborn is nestled in Laura’s arms. Mr. Stark tips his hat in greeting. Darcy grins warmly. 

So many smiling people, happy to have him here with them. It is exquisitely beautiful, and they all turn to watch as Bucky, a boy of seventeen again, reaches the bottom of the staircase. At the top landing, someone stands with his back to him. As Bucky starts up the stairs, the man turns, with a smile on his face. Steve. His Steve is here with him, as he was in life. Young. Strong. Handsome.

Steve holds his hand out for him, and when Bucky takes it, he guides him into his arms. Both smiling, they hold each other for a moment before they share a soft, passionate kiss. 

All around them, the passengers, officers, and crew of the RMS Titanic smile and break out in thunderous applause in wonder and awe of their everlasting love. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy! Come follow me on tumblr for more stucky/marvel goodness at [thebestpersonherelovesbucky](https://thebestpersonherelovesbucky.tumblr.com/)!


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